47 The Long, Harsh Road
by Amorphous Blue Blob
Summary: When Harry turns ten, he starts having dreams of another world, and another life. As a result, a rather different Harry Potter attends Hogwarts, preparing for not one, but two, coming wars. And, this time, he's not alone. IN PROGRESS. See profile for more details. A "Harry is", reincarnation and time-travel, fic, after an AU of Thor: The Dark World. HPbookverse-centric, all years.
1. Dreams and Realities

**The Long, Harsh Road**

**author's note (3rd update):** Wow, I was so clueless when I first started posting here: readers are more likely to complain that I don't change canon _enough_ than that I got some dialogue or detail (or important plot point) wrong.  
Introductory info. here: this is based on the MCU. The movies, not the comics. It ignores anything you don't see in the theatres. And this is bookverse-HP, meaning that it isn't beholden to anything that isn't in those seven books.  
Now, more important: this is a fix fic, and I am through apologising. I've had enough (very judgemental) complaints to push even internet-me into "the spite corner". No mean feat. So, let me spell this out for those of you inclined to judge me based on what I write:  
_The Long, Harsh Road_, in particular, focuses on HP-canon, and covers Harry's seven years at Hogwarts. This is a fix fic, with a bit of canon-welding/worldbuilding, and apology of HP-canon thrown in. Fleshing things out.  
Again: _this is a fix-fic_. And, since this idea seems not to be clear to quite a few people, fix-fics have a certain relationship to canon by definition. It's in their _nature_. It's what makes them what they are.  
Let's go over what a fix-fic is, to see whether or not this story is for you.  
A fix-fic is a 'fic that writes _canon events happening differently_ such that a desired outcome is achieved, or, more like, an undesired outcome is avoided. The deaths of beloved characters tends to be my fixation. These tend to be why I write fix-fics.  
But, here's the thing. Fix-fics are, again, _canon events happening differently_. If I were rehashing, then what you would have wouldn't be a fix-fic. It would be a rewrite. But, if I eschewed canon entirely, that _also_ wouldn't be a fix-fic—it would be an au. I like the occasional au, but I find them hard to invest in. AUs aren't fix-fics. They're a different genre.  
This is not an au. This is a fix-fic. I like to see how crossovered characters deal with canon events. That's sort of hard to do without _using_ canon events.  
This 'fic is made of the familiar made strange, not a hodgepodge of unfamiliar elements. It is a story of secrets and forgiveness, family and redemption. If that's not your cup of tea, I suggest you look elsewhere. Perhaps a nice next-gen fic.  
Also, seriously, peeps, I was partway through book five when I _started_ posting. I was very upfront in my second author's note in telling you that I had written the first 110 chapters _before **Endgame** even came out_. I'm even further along, now. I'm not going to rewrite everything I have written to write a completely different story that isn't even the one I wanted to tell. I'd be more likely to abandon this thing, which I didn't want to write, anyway.

* * *

**Chapter One: Dreams and Realities**

Harry Potter of Number Four, Privet Drive, knew that he was a freak long before his tenth birthday. He'd known it for years, the information fed regularly to him by his aunt and uncle, with whom he lived following the catastrophic car crash that had ruined his life.

He was told that he was a freak most often by his Uncle Vernon and cousin, Dudley, Uncle Vernon when something difficult to explain happened, or he was feeling particularly vindictive, and Dudley…well, on a regular basis_—_perhaps whenever his tiny brain recalled the fact.

Harry had accepted that this _was_ a fact, was _true_, before he'd acquired even a little of the critical thinking skills he would need to analyse its accuracy. Strange things happened around him; he was a freak. Conclusion and premise seemed too far removed, if you took it apart thus. But he didn't think to do that until he was eight or nine. He wasn't sure which.

Looking back on it, all he could recall later was that, whenever it was that he'd first analysed the argument—first thought to question it_—_he had only just begun to settle into the conclusion that it _wasn't_ true, when his tenth birthday had struck, as the chimes of Cinderella's curst clock, and his conclusion was upended, overruled, by the dreams.

Because surely no one else had such dreams as these; either his dreams before had been freakish, if these be normal; or those dreams had been normal, if these be freakish; or both; there was no avoiding the fact, however, that one type at least of his dreams, the _before_, or the _after_, must be odd, and wasn't that what it meant, to be a freak? That there was that about you, something, about which people could only say, "well, that is unusual"?

The _before_ dreams were what he considered normal. Ordinary, everyday objects and things, arranged in unusual combinations, sequences, and patterns. Going to the dentist to find that the dentist was trying to pull your teeth with a guitar pick while his marmalade cat juggled jars of the condiment by the cabinets. Or you were taking a walk through the city park, when suddenly all of the flowers began to sing a nonsense song to the melody of "Blue Danube", but the neighbour was trying to cut the heads off the flowers (and Aunt Petunia wouldn't like that, now would she?)

Harry was fairly sure that normal people have such dreams. He assumed they were a universal constant. Sometimes, it was true, they were less surreal, featuring a giant with a scraggly, full beard carrying him in his arms, whilst riding a _flying motorbike_, and with such sincere care that Harry cried when he woke, at least when he was little, pining for that overt affection, the compassion, the love that he received only in dreams.

And there was the nightmare with the bright flash of green light, which he sensed had more detail to it than he remembered upon waking. That light was all that ever stayed with him, however, that and a feeling of…_bad_. It was a nightmare because it carried with it some unidentified badness, not fear, not sorrow, not anger, not shame, not guilt. Just negativity itself, simplistically laid out. That was enough to make it a nightmare.

Harry did not hate the colour green, and did not shrink from the green lightbulbs on the strands of lights people hung up at Christmastime. The only thing that gave him to know that this was a nightmare was that _badness_ it left even when he woke. Something bad came with the green light.

Actually, that dream occasionally surfaced even after the new type of dream supplanted the old ones.

The dreams that Harry Potter considered freakish, himself, the dreams that made him "a freak", started the very night of his tenth birthday. Not those early hours of the morn of July Thirty-First_—_those were full of the old, ordinary dreams.

But the new dreams began that night. He had not been expecting them, and had at first written off their strangeness as an anomaly_—_a single instance of confusion, perhaps; if dreams were meant to clarify the data collected over the day, it perhaps made sense that a particularly vexing problem might produce more muddled, insubstantial dreams. It was true that never before had Harry had dreams that were little more than vague impression of colours and sounds(such bright light! What a loud noise!) but school grew progressively harder as you aged, and even now, during the summer break, perhaps….

Before he could think about it too hard, see the holes in his flimsy explanation formulated as he dressed for the day, he shoved all thought and memory of the hazy dream aside, and set to his household chores, content to ignore the oddity of the anomaly. He had important, real things to concern himself with, as cooking breakfast. And weeding Aunt Petunia's flower garden.

But the next night, he had a repeat of the dream of the last. Or maybe it wasn't a repeat_—_a dream made of nothing but vague impressions is difficult to tell from its fellow hazy muddles. There seemed to be a lot of green, red, blue, and gold in both dreams. What more could you go by?

But the dreams continued, and Harry was forced to reconsider his conclusion that he was _not_ a freak, that nothing was wrong with him. These were freaky dreams. He was _sure_ that normal people did not have dreams of unclear sounds and blurred-together colours, night after night. Maybe he _was_ a freak.

He wondered if the frustration that he felt with the dreams' vagueness was how people who wore glasses felt, when their glasses were missing. That lack of focus was as an itch unscratched, needing to be humoured. He found himself dwelling upon the dreams, "squinting" at them, as if that would bring them into focus.

Perhaps it did.

Time progressed, and, without consciously realising it, within the month, he was isolating individual words, recognisable shapes_—_an oval, a square, a diamond, with their individual colours: a _brown_ oval, a _green_ square, a _white_ diamond. The difference was small, but it served to make Harry just the tiniest bit curious about the dreams, themselves. And those words, fragments of conversation, which blew "in one ear, and out the other". What was it all _about_? He wanted to understand, but had no frame of reference.

It took another three months for the dreams to resolve themselves enough for them to become…well, like ordinary reality, he supposed. There was none of the constant flux he was used to with dream-stuff, still, but the haze had sharpened and clarified, for the most part, into a beautiful setting, of lavish luxury, a palace picked out in bright colour and radiant jewel tones and gold. Even before it solidified, that exquisite beauty was so breathtaking that it filled Harry with a sharp pang of loss to wake in his cupboard, with that luscious dreamscape out of reach.

He spent the next month wandering empty halls, learning the lay of the land, amidst the bright gold and rich verdure of courtyard and palace walls. The palace was in suspiciously good repair for being completely empty save for him, himself. But the lack of furniture made telling where he had and hadn't been before somewhat trying.

Halfway through, the ghosts of furnishings appeared, and he found that he always started off in the same bedroom. All the furniture was in greyscale; he could tell it was the same room only because of the placement of the furniture. The bed had been made while he was out. Sometimes, he didn't leave the room (he shouldn't _have_ to), instead lying down on the four-poster bed, staring up at the canopy.

But soon, that struck him as a waste_—_he was lying down in a cramped cupboard in truth, and while he greatly enjoyed the feel of a soft bed under his back, he knew that it wasn't real, and its effects would not carry over. Why waste time daydreaming when he could do _that_ out in the waking world? It was almost Christmas, after all, and his aunt and uncle (and even his cousin), were paying him less heed than usual_—_not because small mercies were in the spirit of the season, but because they were too busy buying presents for Dudley.

No, his time was better spent wandering the palace some more, now that he had a way of telling the rooms apart. He'd already memorised its every twist and turn, but now, he could put function and name to the other rooms of the palace. Shame that everything was grey, though.

New Year's Day brought a nice surprise: grey _people_, wandering the halls, or standing still (on guard, Harry decided). None of them noticed his passing, and he couldn't speak to any of them. The guards might as well have been statues (they didn't even seem to need to breathe) but the other people_—_well, since he accidentally walked right _through_ someone (a little girl, he thought, with long, dark hair, tripping over her dress as she hurried off…somewhere. He didn't follow her)… well, he had the sneaking suspicion that _he_ wasn't there in truth.

Although he came to realise that the same day repeated, with the little girl following the exact same path, to the point that he learnt exactly when to step back and let her pass, by the end of the week, he never did follow her. He was much more interested in the two little boys out in the palace courtyard, probably learning how to defend themselves. Maybe Harry would learn something; who knew?

He had no idea who they were, or why he felt strangely drawn to them, as if they were his reason for being here at all, but he ignored that line of thought to watch them.

One of them was taller, and broader (about Harry's age, if Harry had to guess), with long hair (Harry shrugged; all the adults seemed to have long hair, here). He carried a hammer at his side. It was inscribed with strange symbols, and seemed to be faintly glowing.

The other boy was smaller, seemed much younger, perhaps seven or eight, with black hair, and a lither musculature. He didn't seem to have a special weapon, which was just as well; Harry found the hammer kept drawing his concentration when he should have been watching the boys being walked through sword training by an old man with hair that probably _was_ grey. He was uninteresting, though, so Harry paid him little heed.

He was too busy watching the two boys. Either their voices were very, very deep, or something was still distorting the sound, but they seemed to be spending quite a bit of time exchanging what seemed to be fairly light-hearted remarks_—_he couldn't see anyone's face, including theirs, but neither of them tried to kill each other. He imagined that they were complaining about the taskmaster, or something, or maybe some light teasing. He imagined that they were best friends_—_or maybe even family.

He shut down that line of thought. There was no way to know for sure, and it made him aware of a certain hollow area in his heart he hadn't noticed before. That craving for affection that is ordinary for children, but which Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had done their best to stamp out. _Freaks_ didn't _deserve_ notice.

They looked so _happy_. Harry tried hard not to compare the minuscule amount he knew about them to himself. It was a difficult task; he spent the week making up stories about who they were, what their connection to one another was. He forgot to watch the taskmaster. They were the reason he was here. They were the key. He was sure of it.

He assumed that he'd have more time to watch that scene, to watch that _day_. All the other dreams had seemed to last for a month, at least. But then again, there hadn't been any people, in _them_. Perhaps he'd been given only a week, each time, and hadn't _known_, without any way of measuring such time.

But starting January Eighth, everything shifted radically, _again_. He wasn't Harry Potter, anymore, in his dreams. He could never figure out who he was, exactly, which sounds strange, but his dreamscape seemed to still be developing itself. People's voices were faded and unusually deep, as a recording set to slow, their words dragged out in a harsh, low growling. And the people were still grey, all around him. But now, there was no weekly scene. Events from days and years apart were crammed together into the sleep and dreams of a single night.

Not that he knew that while he was sleeping. While he was sleeping, he was sure, he knew more than he remembered upon awakening. He found his way through the palace with casual ease, and didn't need to think about it, and he seemed to spend most of his time with the hazy figure of the other boy. But neither of them had a hammer, and no one carried any sort of identification. Harry-who-wasn't didn't escape the universal epidemic of low, drawn-out speech.

His dream self was one of the two boys, but they were both younger than they'd been in the repeating dream, and Harry, reflecting, recalled from somewhere that he'd heard that people seldom looked the same throughout their entire lives. Either boy could change a lot in those four or five years. Right?

Whichever of the two he was, he was shy, reserved, trailing behind the other, following him around, letting him decide what to do, and how it should be done. And the other didn't seem to mind a bit. Dream-Harry was content with the situation, just glad that they were close. There was a certain strong fondness towards the unidentified companion of Harry's dream-self that carried over even into the waking world, to _Harry_.

They spent much of the first day sneaking around the palace, with the other motioning for silence, holding him back from continuing forward, occasionally. If Harry had been himself, he might have complained that he'd spent a month wandering these halls, and was sure he could direct the boy wherever he needed to go (the slow-speeched people seemed to have no trouble understanding one another). But he wasn't Harry. He was the other boy, a boy with a different history to Harry Potter. With a less well-developed mind.

They managed to sneak around the palace without once being caught by a guard. Harry, reflecting upon the dream when he awoke, would wonder whether the guards hadn't just pretended not to see them_—_but then, why _would_ they have? Just who _were_ these boys?

It was as an itch that couldn't be scratched, consuming all attention with a _need_.

But there was something else, too. Harry cherished the dream, thought of how _comfortable_ the two seemed around one another. Thought of how _different_ their treatment of one another was from how the boys at school treated him. The boys…and Dudley. And the Dursleys. He had no memory from his waking life to compare it to. Everyone at home treated him with contempt. The boys at school were too afraid of Dudley to make an overture of friendship. He was alone, with no friends.

This was his first experience of friendship, or maybe of what a familial relationship _should_ be. There was no wariness, no rejection, no fear_—_there was no _bad_. To Harry, such a dream was more precious than all the gold adorning the palace walls. It made him wish he _were_ the boy, and not Harry Potter. If the dreams had been building up to this, then all the wait, and all the soul-searching he'd engaged in, had been worth it. Even for just this dream.

But it wasn't just that dream. There was always at least one dream per night, many of them quite ordinary_—_the boredom of being instructed in…_something_, what, he couldn't tell; there were no tools of the trade lying about to help him identify what he was being taught, but he recognised a teacher when he saw one, even if she _was_ a strangely youthful old woman in an old-fashioned grey dress (_was_ the dress grey?).

He decided it was probably a class on court etiquette when she gave a very formal-looking, deep bow.

Of course, if this were a court, then it was also possible that he was someone of some sort of importance, despite being a child, and she was showing him respect.

Nah.

At the end of the week, he was back in the covered courtyard, trying to wrap his chubby hands around the handle of some manner of blade. He was probably about five years old, which struck him as insane, when he awoke. Who lets a five-year-old anywhere near a knife?

Then, he remembered Aunt Petunia teaching him the basics of cooking when he was six. It was alright, then; no one in the palace seemed concerned, and the old man probably knew best.

In between the two dreams, he saw much of the other boy_—_or rather, he was often around; everyone was still grey and hazy. Dream-Harry went often to the library, a huge room with towering shelves that made Waking-Harry wonder how anyone reached them, and windows that flooded the room with light. The first time Harry saw the library, his dream-self was probably about the same age he himself was_—_a rare moment of coincidence. Whatever he was reading (it was a mess of strange symbols Harry didn't recognise), it was very interesting, sparking all sorts of new ideas and theories lost upon his awakening. Of course.

But he seemed to research, and read about, a number of different topics, some interesting, some boring. Sometimes his dream let him keep some basic knowledge of what he'd been studying_—_history, language, magic…wait, what? There was no such thing as magic.

There could be in dreams, though. Just as, in dreams, there could be friends, and family who loved him, and people who respected him, without him even having to do anything impressive.

It felt as if something in his heart were being filled up. Unfortunately, said part of his heart also seemed to have a hole in it, because the dreams left him with a strong longing for the palace, for his family, for his friends, for _home_. Number Four, Privet Drive had never been home to him. He saw that, now.

He missed them, all of the inhabitants of the palace, despite not having a single name to go on. He treasured the dreams, the only thing he had to look forward to. The teachers at school were no fonder of him _after_ New Year's than _before_.

He wished the dreams were real, that he was that boy, whoever he was, out there, somewhere, dreaming that he was Harry Potter, and would wake to go on adventures and have fun with…his brother, Harry decided. They were definitely brothers.

He remembered the dream in which someone had actually made him cry after one of those stupid training lessons with swords. An older kid had come over, probably to test out the new meat. He'd gotten away with it because this weird society thought that if you were beaten up, then you deserved it. A real man could fight, even a child, and prowess and skill were the only important things. They'd looked the other way_—_if Harry was too weak to defend himself, this would be a good lesson. The older kid had even gone easy on him.

But Harry's brother had disagreed, challenged the older boy, somehow won (perhaps because they were closer to being the same age, if Harry was the younger of the two; why couldn't he tell; that sort of thing should be _obvious_?) and had slung an arm around Dream-Harry's shoulder, leading him away from the battleground with a fierce glare towards anyone who looked their way.

They shrank back, and Harry didn't need an interpreter of growl-speech to know that the boy's tone was concerned, and that his words were "Are you okay?" in growl.

He said something suitably macho in reply, and the boy nodded, but was clearly still worried, and hauled him off to be looked over, even though he only had a single cut, on his arm, and it wasn't _that_ deep.

_This_ was what family was, Harry decided. What Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would never give him. What, perhaps, only his dreams could.


	2. Mother

**Chapter Two: Mother**

The first time he saw her, he was in the library (a fairly common occurrence), studying a hazy grey tome that breathed age. He couldn't recognise any of the symbols on the page, which seemed to be good enough for his subconscious; it made no effort to distort them further. Dream-Harry understood them well enough; the overlap of their identities would have let him know if there were any confusion as to what the markings meant, the way they warned him of the latent frustration building beneath the surface.

A woman came gliding into the library as he worked, unseen, unnoticed by him, until something (who knew what?) caught his attention. Perhaps she made some small noise. But by the time she was approaching him, he had already set aside his book, as if bracing himself.

She was a woman who stuck in Harry's mind, would have if only for the fact that she alone amongst all of the grey people was colourful and vibrantly alive. She was quite beautiful, with long blonde hair pulled back behind her, and a very old-fashioned, bright blue dress that matched her eyes. She had a regal bearing, and moved with quiet grace_—_the illusion of frailty, delicate and graceful. When she spoke, he heard her voice, and could understand the words.

"Does something ail you, my son?" she asked, amusement laced in her tone. Waking-Harry would later be relieved to find that her voice sounded, for once, like that of an actual person. She had a very soothing voice, Waking-Harry would later reflect.

Unlike Dream-Harry, when he made his brief response. The woman (the boy's mother, _Dream-Harry's_ mother: imagine that!) laughed, and came to stand before him.

"Well, in such an old book as this, I am not surprised. Perhaps I might help you, instead. Your father and I both know a little about magic, and while it is different for every individual, I might provide some guidance, at least."

Longing and suspicion. Uncertainty. The boy's response was cautious, as if treading on thin ice.

She laughed again. "It is true that he is…disappointed, somewhat, that you do not progress as swiftly as he would like. I think he forgets how it is, to be young, sometimes."

The boy smiled, at this, but made no answer. "He would not begrudge you such learning, if I were to teach you. We all have different areas of strength and weakness. I think I might enjoy playing the role of the teacher_—_if you would permit your tiresome mother to intrude in your research, thus."

Distress. He made a hasty protest. Harry would have done no different, in his shoes.

The woman sat down on the other side of the desk, and smiled at him, a smile full of exasperated fondness, that lingered with Harry into wakefulness. Had anyone ever looked at _him_ that way? At Harry? But for now, he was engrossed in the dream, as Dream-Harry's mother gently pushed aside some of the books he had pulled from the shelves, clearing room, and making it easier for them to see one another.

"I have it on good authority that you have caused quite a bit of trouble, of late, setting carpets alight, and shattering heirlooms."

He hastened to interject a rousing defence on his own part, but she shook her head.

"Magic can be unpredictable, and is often tied to our moods," she said. "For those who have not yet learnt self-control, small accidents often occur, particularly in times of extreme negative emotion. Perhaps these accidents were caused by a certain…disappointment, at not finding what you sought for in the library, hmm?"

She smiled again, and leant back. "But they will do for a beginning of my instruction. And…well, I should say, first of all, that all Nine Realms are filled with ambient magic, as well as the magic in living things. Therefore, when we use magic, it can come of two different sources_—_from without, in the air, in the ground, and in artefacts_—_or from ourselves. There are some, such as your friend Heimdall, who can use magic through a conduit_—_the sword."

Harry did not understand the explanation when he awoke, but whilst still dreaming, he _did_, every word. He listened with rapt attention.

"Therefore, when using magic, it is always important first to know whether to use the ambient magic of the area, or to draw on your own magic. The latter will drain you more quickly_—_unless you have built up the stamina through much use. But the former also has its risks. Always know the _nature_ of magic that is not a part of you, _before_ you attempt to use it.

"For instance, have you felt the magic here in the palace? On the surface, as here in the library, it is filled with light and warmth. You have many associations here, with home. The magic of our world recognises you, and welcomes you to use its magic. To use the ambient magic of a world that rejected you would take greater effort and skill, and would still more the swiftly take its toll. Take a moment, now, to see if you agree with my description. What does the magic in this library evoke?"

He closed his eyes, obedient, appreciated the warmth and light streaming through the windows, the warmth of his mother's love, the age and wisdom contained within the walls. They were very like his mother, he decided_—_regal and proud, but still welcoming and wise.

While he was at it, he took a moment to sift through his memories of other places, categorising their different emotions. He'd felt it before, sometimes, but now he wanted to go through the whole palace, analysing every room.

He opened his eyes, and nodded. There was a certain sense of wonder and awe at the experience, a door opening into a new way of looking at the world. Was this the thrill others found in conquest? he asked himself. He could not help leaning forwards, slightly, before remembering proper posture. His mother laughed, and shook her head.

"Yes. I see that you understand. You feel it, as do I. And I suspect there is no need to tell you that different locations, and therefore different magics, lend themselves more readily to different works. Your father has filled the throne room with the warp and weft of destiny: power, raw, and therefore dangerous. And if you were to venture into the lower palace_—_where we have forbidden you to enter, with good reason_—_you would find that the air, the earth, the light there, is foul and corrupt. It invites in death and decay, and would drain away your energy faster than you could replenish it. To venture below with your own magical energy not yet developed would twist you into something unrecognisable, or even kill you."

He probably said something resentful at this point about _knowing, Mum, and I haven't gone down there_.

He'd never seen a lower palace in his wanderings. He wondered what she meant.

"And let that be a warning, also," she continued. "Do not trust the outward appearance of any world, for there are often hidden dangers in even the safest of places. Forgive your old mother for fretting over you thus, but you _do_ seem to have a knack for finding trouble."

He grumbled something else in reply.

"The safest course of action is usually to use the magic within you, but that is not always safe, or feasible, either. Hone your ability to sense the souls of the places you visit, and ask yourself what manner of magic might most easily be performed there, and what hidden dangers it might hold."

She stood, now, with the same grace with which she did everything else, and he said something else, trying to hide his disappointment that she seemed to have concluded the lesson. She paused, at his protestations, and bent to face him squarely.

"The secret to magic is desire, and focus. This is always true. By performing small acts of magic, you will develop those magical reserves that you will need to sustain greater works of magic. It is best to start with small goals in mind. Overuse of magic will tire you. It is very draining, at first, to use even the simplest of spells. But we may begin now."

The dream ended there, to Harry's frustration. He was now quite curious about how you started using magic, and although it was addressed by Dream-Harry's mother in a later dream, he wished that he could have heard it in that one.

Instead, he spent quite a bit of time with his brother (getting into trouble, he suspected), his brother getting into fights, and being taught how to defend himself. Despite not being able to hear the drillmaster's words, he suspected that he was nonetheless beginning to gain a picture of how to hold a sword, how to fight with one, or at least defend himself. He almost thought that he could bring a kitchen knife to school for the next time the bullies that were his cousin and his friends decided to beat him up. That was, however, a very bad idea, as he decided soon after he woke up. Magic, though….

Nah. Magic wasn't real. He told himself that firmly, but he still remembered the regal woman's comments on small accidents caused by intense negative emotions. Many of the freakish things his relatives blamed him for occurred when he was angry, or fleeing Dudley's gang. _Could_ it be magic?

* * *

He grew quite fond of the entire dream family, with an added dollop of wary respect for his father. Even faceless, he made an imposing figure, and filled Harry with a host of conflicting emotions_—_do you even love me? How do I prove myself? What do I do?

He was so austere, so remote. But there were times when he showed his approval, with a nod, a hand on the shoulder, even the occasional word of praise, that made Harry feel as if he were filled with some sort of buoyant luminescence.

This was what people meant, he decided, when they said that someone was _glowing_. It was this levity and pride. He had little occasion of it at the Dursleys, but here he had his mother's fond encouragements and proud smiles when he mastered something particularly difficult (the anachronic order of his dreams meant that he sometimes received _lessons_ in the incorrect order, although for Dream-Harry, his life progressed linearly; thus, it didn't matter).

Of the three members of his family, he was fondest of his mother, and of course his brother. He sometimes trailed after the other boy, with something of a reverent adoration. Although his brother had other friends, he always seemed to be able to find time for Dream-Harry, if he needed help. Perhaps, as he had heard people complain while out with the Dursleys, that would change, they would grow apart when one of them hit their teens, and entered "that difficult stage". For now, Harry basked in their camaraderie.

There was a sense of safety, security, belonging, amongst these people, and Harry hugged it close to himself, wished to vanish forever into that dreamscape, where he was wanted, even if it wasn't he who was wanted. Where he was _loved_.

By the end of January, he had quite_—_what was the phrase?_—_quite _fallen in love with_ the lot of them. Even the forbidding figure of Dream-Harry's father had a special place in Waking-Harry's heart. How could he not, when on his worst days, there was more of compassion and understanding about him than the Dursleys at their best?

He cherished these dreams, looked forward to them, held onto them as best he could, although often the substance of them slipped away as he entered the waking world. But even at noon, sitting alone with his lunch, he could still remember the vague forms of his dream-family, the radiant beauty of his dream-mother, her gentle, silent strength.

-l-

It was almost a disappointment, therefore, when on the night dividing January from February_—_on the night of January Thirty-First_—_he dreamt not of the palace, but of a quiet cabin in the heart of a woods.

His dream began with him standing outside a wooden door, hand poised to knock_—_or perhaps to reach for the knob and enter, or just to reach out and touch the coarse grain of the wood. He hesitated, and then reached for the knob. If he couldn't have the palace, he wanted to know what dire emergency had caused his subconscious to forego it. He thrust open the door with some violence, on account of what he would not admit to himself was hurt and disappointment.

He entered the little log cabin, which was bigger inside than out, and looked around at the wood-paneled walls, at the cosy-looking sofas and armchairs ranged around a low-set wooden coffee table, at the cupboards he could see hanging from the walls of the kitchen.

He moved towards the wooden stairs at the far side of the room (the house had not seemed big enough for a second storey, from the outside), but before he could gain half the distance, a form rushed him, and warm arms wrapped around him, murmuring something indecipherable over his shoulder. He flinched, and tried to pull away. Touch never boded well_—_not unless he were in the palace, being someone else.

The figure seemed to notice his distress, and withdrew, unfolding her arms, and standing back, that Harry might the better see her. She was much taller than he, being an adult, with long, fiery red hair, and bright green eyes. Something about that description gave him pause. Her eyes_—they're __just like__ mine_, he thought, _just the same shape and shade_.

"My son," she whispered, kneeling down before him to put them at eye-level despite his shorter stature. "Oh, my beloved child. What have they done to you? What makes you shrink from your mother?"

He noticed tears in her eyes, and paused, reconsidered. He'd never seen a photograph, had no names to go by, had no way of knowing whether this woman was who she seemed to be claiming to be. But he _wanted_…. The depth of his desire astounded him.

"Who are you?" he demanded, refusing to yield to hope, to longing, he fixed her with his best unreadable stare, and her eyes turned sad, and wistful.

"I am Lily Evans, the erstwhile wife of James Potter. I am your _mother_, Harry. Please…."

"M_—_Mum?" he asked, scarcely daring to believe it. Surely, it could not be. This was a trick, an illusion.

A dream. And anything might happen in dreams.

"Harry, my son, how can you not recognise your own mother?" she wiped tears from her eyes as they started to fill again. "When I knew that I could see you again—could be not completely absent from your life, though these be but dreams—I had not expected such a reunion. Harry, my son…why do you fear me?"

"I'm not afraid of you," Harry said, crossing his arms in defiance. She took a step forwards, and then another, and he forced himself not to draw back, not to retreat. This was his mother. He could trust her, if anyone. His _mother_. Or an illusion of her.

She gently wrapped her arms around him, again, and he flinched, but didn't draw away, this time. He hesitated, but then wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her as if she were the only thing standing between him and a bottomless pit.

They stayed that way for several minutes, as warmth that came only from his dreams permeated his entire being, and then she let him go, again, and stood. He stared at the hem of her bright green dress, unable to look her in the eyes. Never before had anyone shown _Harry Potter_ such affection. Not in his memory.

A delicate hand appeared in his vision, and he looked up to see she had bent over to extend a hand to him.

"Walk with me. Tell me of your life these past nine years, my son. I have much to speak with you on, but that can wait. There are many secrets that I must keep from you, for only a few more months. But for tonight, walk with me. Tell me of your life. Tell me everything."

He looked up, amazed at the genuine warmth and care he could almost feel radiating from her in waves.

"Are you real?" he asked, and she laughed.

"Here, in the boundary between reality and delusion, does it matter? But I am realer than you might expect, my dearest child. Come with me. I will show you the gardens, and you will tell me of your life, and we will come to an understanding. Come."

"Why are you keeping secrets from me, then? Am I 'not old enough to know'?" he asked, bitterness leaking into the recitation of the familiar excuse.

"No," she said, and there was a pause, stretching out the power of that single word, its simplicity, before she continued. "In a few months, you will be introduced to James's world. It will be a pleasant surprise for you, and I would not take it from you, but also…." She sighed, and bowed her head. "There will always be those who will judge you, and appearances are very important; even in that world, there are politics to consider, and power games. I doubt you could muster the genuine shock you would need in your response, as if you truly had no knowledge of that world."

He was mollified, somewhat, despite the implication that he would not be able to fool…someone, into thinking his surprise was genuine. It seemed to imply a lack of skill, or of intelligence. But she had, at least, said that she was not keeping secrets on account of his age. His mind wandered to other mysteries.

"Where's Dad, then?"

"James could not be here," she said. "I feel certain he would have come, had he been able."

"And why did he not come?" asked Harry. "Why couldn't he be here, too?"

_How very greedy of you, Harry_, he told himself, but it stung, the thought that perhaps his father didn't care.

"James and I are very different, with very different abilities. A strong cord binds you and me together, stronger than merely the bond between mother and son, or rather, a strengthened version of that bond. When I died, I lived on in your blood. I will explain further, later. This will not be the last time we meet in your dreams."

Her hand was still outstretched toward him, showcasing an endless reserve of patience. Something about her reminded him of his other mother, and that made him feel safe in her presence. He took her hand, and she raised him to his feet, leading him to the far side of the room, past the stairs, to a little room beyond, where another door led back to outside.

For hours, they walked amongst the flowers and vegetables of Lily's garden, and at last, Harry, reassured by the lack of judgemental criticism when he told her of the small revenges he'd had on Dudley's gang, before fear had driven away that confidence, spilt his heart out, telling her about his treatment by the Dursleys, how Dudley always received the best gifts, and Harry made do with hand-me-downs and castoffs, donations for the needy. He watched as her face darkened with terrifying fury, and shrank back, cautious again.

"Ah, Petunia, how could you behave thus towards your flesh-and-blood?" she demanded of the empty sky, and he slowly realised that she was angry not _with_ him, but _for_ him. A crackling, vengeful warmth emanated from her, but he knew that it would not burn him.

"Mum?" he asked. She smiled at him. She had such a beautiful, sweet smile, and it was just for him. Another memory to cherish, to hug close.

"It is almost time for us to part, love. But, hold fast! You will see me again on the night of March Thirty-First. The magic that binds us together is strongest near times of transition. February has but twenty-eight days, when the magic requires at least thirty, but March is not such a month, but it also holds the Vernal Equinox, the transition from winter to spring. Hold fast, my son! We shall meet again, then, and _I_ shall tell _you_ some things. Know that my love and protection are always with you."

Even as he reached for her, the world faded out around him, and he awoke to the darkness of his cupboard, hot tears streaming down his face. The machismo of the other dreams was too hard-engrained in him, by this point, for him to do anything but swipe at his eyes and look around as if to see whether anyone had noticed. But he was alone, of course, in the utter dark of his cupboard.


	3. Just Give Me a Hint!

**Chapter Three: Just Give Me a Hint!**

The next night, things were very different, again. As if the dreamscape palace had taken the opportunity afforded by Harry's absence to do some remodeling, Harry returned the next night to find everything awash with bright colours (and not-so-bright colours). No longer grey and vague, the people of his dreamscape now wore armour, and fine clothes of what he might mistake for silk, satin, velvet, or brocade. Their faces were still blurred, but the lack of greyness was an encouraging sight, particularly since he could now also discern individual words_—_the speech of all, and not only his mother. The furnishings had also gained their own colours.

He noticed quite a bit of green around his room, and that red seemed to congregate around his brother. Oh, well. He supposed that they were chromatic opposites, to match their rather different dispositions. It made sense, at least according to dream logic, which knowledge he had received (along with the old wives' tale about dying in your dreams) in the waking world, from overheard conversations, and pseudo-Socratic seminars. Dreams operated in symbols, although these dreams seemed unusually direct. Less of dreams, and more of…memories.

What metaphor was there to be seen in his mother's lessons in magic, or his father's hard-earned approval, or his brother in trouble, yet again (try as he might, Harry's attempts to talk him out of _getting_ into trouble, both before and after the fact, were often vain)?

He wished that he could wander the dreamscape again, with it empty and free for him to explore, now that he knew that it had an underbelly, now that all was in rich colour, and perhaps if he were a lucid dreamer, he might have, but he was trapped in his dream-self's mind, and that dream-self never considered that this might all be unreal.

He was too busy, now in his teens (Harry assumed, although it was difficult to tell, as his dream self never seemed to feel the need to primp in front of a mirror or examine his reflection, nor to dwell upon his appearance or age).

The first few dreams after the sudden introduction of colour and voice were quotidian, as if to allow him to acclimate to this new layout. It made the entire affair seem that much realer, made it that much more the difficult, to leave. He began to consider that he might have, somehow, opened his mind to an extant other _world_.

Just give him something, a name of place, a location that he could research, and even if it were in Africa or (heaven forbid, _the Americas_), he would find his way there, though it mean traversing perilous desert or jungle. He owed it to these people, at the very least, to let them know that they were being watched, but more than that, he felt that this was where he truly belonged, and, although he might not _be_ the boy in the dreams, still the inhabitants might be prevailed upon to allow him to stay. Just give him something, _anything_, to go on, he thought.

And he began to pay heed to the feelings imbued in his surroundings outside the dreams. He found that what his mother had called _magic_, or _soul_, was mostly absent from the industrial, modern buildings, stamped out entirely in Privet Drive. It could still be found, here and there, especially where nature flourished, and in old, semi-abandoned areas, such as the old playground near his house. Perhaps it was because of how many children had built dreams there.

He did not spend much time anticipating his mother's return at the end of March_—_that was two months hence, a long time from now, and besides that…well, that dream was an anomaly to his already anomalous dreamscape. It would most likely not happen again. And if it did…well, he would take that as it came, and not dwell on it before, lest he taste bitter disappointment, again.

He worked on his homework with only half of his attention, paid only half as much heed to his school subjects as he ought. What was the point, when he knew that the Dursleys disliked his success in school, actively encouraging the ignorance of Dudley, and then glancing at him as if to ask, _Why could you not be more __like__ Dudley_?

Who would _want_ to be like Dudley? That was the better question. Rather than chase after the futile, errant, and self-destructive dream his aunt and uncle lay before his feet, he turned his steps instead to the desires and values of his dream-family, which, if a bit suspect, were nevertheless much superior to those espoused by the Dursleys.

He noticed that there were now fewer dreams in which he was five and six years old; now, he was usually in his double digits, same as he was in real life (or merely in the waking world?). Perhaps such childhood memories were so far distant that they were responsible for the vagueness, and lack of colour, and now that he could see and hear, his dreams were moving him onwards?

Names, however, were rarely used, it seemed, at all_—_at least to refer to him and his brother. When they addressed each other, it was almost always with that exact word: brother. Their parents called them "my son". It was as if proper names didn't exist in this place. He almost considered the idea that their names _were_ "brother", or translated to such. He was that desperate. He knew the names of Sif and the Warriors Three (each and every one of them, although he spent little time with them; they were his brother's friends, and they paid him little heed). But his brother's name, and his own? He didn't even know how many _syllables_ either was. Perhaps this was a strange society where you had to first prove yourself, before being given a name.

At least this way, he learnt that he and his brother were in fact princes. That was _something_ to go on. He knew only because the occasional lord or courtier or servant would address them with such phrases as "my lord", or "my prince". Then, truly his mother was a _regal_ woman, and his father was distant in the manner of men of power. Nothing strange there. That his father seemed slightly less distant, and much more approving, of his brother meant either that his brother was the elder of the two (the "Crown Prince", the phrase was, the _heir_), or that he was just the favourite. Judging by his mother's behaviour, it was the latter. The man might not even _realise_ his favouritism, which was a sobering thought.

Still, there was much to learn about this place, now that he could understand people's speech. He wondered if this was how babies felt, when learning to talk. Did they find it this rewarding, when they at last stumbled over their first words, and could make requests?

Well, at least he was progressing well in combat. He knew that he was putting in such effort only for two reasons. The first was to gain Father's approval (an arduous task, but worth it), and the second was to keep up with his brother. If they wished to continue spending their time together, then sooner or later it would come to combat. His brother was quite fond of the rush of battle, and he and his friends seemed to seek out danger, dragging Dream-Harry, half-reluctant, along for the ride. He needed to be able to fight, that he not be a liability.

Despite this, he did not seem to appreciate Dream-Harry's efforts very much, which caused a bit of friction between the two, and almost caused a _real_ duel to break out of the first sparring match where Harry managed to best his brother in combat. Even in a battle of blades, Harry's brother had always before been the victor. Harry was about to say something to the effect of, "Well, now, Brother, am I a worthy companion for your company?", but he saw the expression on his brother's face, the shadow of jealousy that he sometimes recognised in himself, when it was his brother, and not he, recognised by their father. But this…this was _wrong_.

The drillmaster's words were oddly distant. He glanced over to his brother, where he had turned away. He had to think fast, but he knew that he could say something, do something, to save his brother's pride. He could guess at his brother's turmoil. Almost he had forgot: combat was _his brother's_ specialty, and not his, the skill he was most admired for, and that with cause. How would he himself react, then, if his brother had bested him in a competition of magic? And such a delicate ego, wasn't it? His brother's pride so easily injured. But he could fix this. He could. He glanced around at the audience, those who were also of age to train to defend themselves, and their land.

"Now, friends, it is surely not a strange affair for my brother to lose a fight, if he does not fight with his all. I am sure he went easy on me."

There were murmurs of agreement at this, and internally, he smiled. The people, even those who did not know the prince personally, were always swift to rally behind their father's favoured child. He could see them rearranging the event in their minds.

"No," said his brother, at last looking up, sword sheathed at his side, he stood from the bench that sat at the edge, meant for spectators, or those awaiting their turn in the mock arena. "No, that is not true. I fought as well and as fiercely as ever I do. Do not make light of your achievement, my brother. Truly, you have proven yourself this day. You fought well, and did credit to our family."

That shadow was gone, his brother's smile genuine, the tension broken. Harry _glowed_. What did he care for combat and war? But to have this ability, to make joy where there had been sorrow, to soothe quarrels and mend bridges before they broke…this was a power in its own right. He had not properly seen that, before.

His brother was a man of action, fine. But _he_ was a man of words, and words bred action. And today, they had avoided…something bitter. Something _wrong_. Something he could not yet name, but sensed was not yet gone, not yet defeated, it slunk away to lick its wounds, but it would return. Such a feral beast. But, for now….

Perhaps there was a lingering question of how it was that Harry had won this time. Harry smiled at his brother, basking in a sense of accomplishment, and in the usual glow of rare approval. No one could say he was dead weight any longer. Even Sif gave a nod in his direction.

"But, I will say this besides: the sword is not your best weapon. Had we fought with our best weapons, you would surely have won."

More nods.

"And you think that I can best your magic, Brother?" asked the other, with sudden intensity. He leant forwards, lowering his voice, as if sensing that the shifting mood of the crowd was Harry's second victory. "I think not. You have done well. Father will be pleased. I will see to that."

* * *

The dream he was waiting for happened in the third week of February, in the heart of winter. It was very brief, but struck such a powerful chord that it was seared into his memory. In that dream, he and his brother were young—once more about six or seven. Well, there went that theory.

He and his brother stood at the edge of a broad, odd path, coloured in all the hues of the rainbow. To either side, and below, was infinite darkness, dotted with pinpricks of light. _Stars_.

He swallowed, looked down, and glanced away, at the bridge's guardian, a man in gleaming armour, bearing an ornamental sword. Or perhaps not ornamental, in the way even the fanciest objects in this realm seemed to have practical functions.

Their mother came up behind them, resting a hand each over their shoulders.

"Lady Frigga!" cried the bridge's guardian, as if startled by her sudden arrival.

"At ease, Heimdall," she said, as the man stood at attention. "This is very important instruction, and I thought it best that I explain such a serious matter, myself."

She turned back to them, bending low behind them. "Through this bridge, we are able to cross over to the other realms that are under our governance and protection. Heimdall governs its function, and when the day comes when it is time for you to travel to other realms, he shall assist you. For now, look at the bridge_—_is it not a wonder? No other realm has such a gateway!"

"It is beautiful, Mother," Harry's brother agreed, turning round to smile at her. Harry had to agree. Tiny pinpricks of crystalline shards seemed to make up the path, forming a million prisms reflecting each a single hue. Beautiful _and_ useful, as everything in this world was.

"_But_," she continued, and her mild voice turned stern. "It is also dangerous. You should not stand so near the edge, for there is no barrier to keep you from falling into the void below."

The void. Harry looked down, again, as if he couldn't help himself, and shuddered. He took an involuntary step back. The void was cold, terrible, but beautiful in its own right. It seemed to call to him, and he wrenched his gaze away, and spun around to face his mother. The hand that had been on his shoulder rose to rest on his head with reassuring weight. He hadn't realised how tense he'd become until he began to relax.

"We often travel over this bridge. It is not the only way amongst worlds, but it is the most reliable. But lest the more reckless of us_—_" Harry was sure she turned to his brother, who was starting to fidget, "—decide that they _must_ see the other realms for themselves, it seemed prudent to offer a preventive warning."

His brother seemed to realise that he was being spoken of, and stopped fidgeting, briefly, to bow his head.

"But fret not, my sons, there is no inherent danger in the bridge. You are safe."

-m-

The dream might have cut off there, or it might not. Sometimes, scenes, and parts of scenes, still vanished from Harry's memory as he woke. Whatever the case, he was fairly sure that it was the last dream he had before he awoke. He lay there in the cupboard, ignoring the pounding against the cupboard door, or Aunt Petunia's mounting frustration, to try to engrain every detail in his memory.

He had heard names—two of them. Neither his nor his brother's, but his mother now had a name, and the guardian of…a bridge. Formed from a rainbow, or with that appearance, anyway. How many bridges could there be in the world made of rainbows?

Then again…. He thought back to the void, spangled with stars, with even greater unease than during the dream. A sliver of foreign dread stole up his spine, at something he knew he didn't remember. Yet.

Had that been…outer space? His teachers told him that science could do some pretty impressive things these days (just look at Tony Stark's weapons empire; it was alarming!), but he was pretty sure that people couldn't build high enough to reach space, yet.

Had his dreams taken place in another _world_, all along? _Was_ there any way of finding that palace, if it indeed existed?

* * *

Harry spent the entire school day planning out what to do next. The obvious next step was to go to the library, and….

How did you go about using a library, anyway? Well, maybe he could ask a librarian for help?

He thought over the entire plan, sitting through classes paying barely any heed at all to his teachers, focused on much more important matters. Over and over again, he went through that dream in his head, despite by now being sure that it would not vanish, if he had reached school and it still seemed intact. His mother's name was Frigga. Heimdall was the guardian of the rainbow bridge.

These two facts (three) were vital to remember. Far more important than the significance of…whatever they were talking about in school now. Maybe his teacher would know more? But he wasn't making a very good impression, was he?

He paused to pretend to write down some more notes. Dudley gave him a stink-eye from a few seats ahead and to the right. Oh, well.

Right after school, he gave Dudley the slip, and pulled out the rudimentary map to the library he had made instead of eating lunch. It had been difficult to find a teacher who didn't recognise him, had not already had their thoughts towards him poisoned by the Dursleys. But he had done it.

He hadn't dared to broach the topic of his subject of research, and the man hadn't asked, as if sensing that he'd rather not share. Probably thought it was something to do with "growing up and becoming a man". Something embarrassing. Harry shamelessly took advantage of this fact. Even _had_ he not thought the entire subject dangerously reminiscent of a descent into madness, he wasn't sure if he felt like sharing the dream palace. And it seemed a bit…childish. Weren't children's games of make-believe all about pretending to be royalty and living the good life?


	4. A Trip to the Library

**Edited note: **All you really need to know is that I complained at great length about Thor's age according to the MCU and how it relates to actual history, and religion (and also Hogwarts, yes). Some wonderful people gave me some advice, so I've changed this note. Thank you for everyone who did. I'll consider what you've said, see how things go. And, I'll leave this note up so that you don't think that their comments come from nowhere.  
(It's even possible that I was harsher than I should have been. I do tend to assume the worst of Disney, given their track record.)

* * *

**Chapter Four: A Trip to the Library**

He trudged through the lonely streets in silence, barely noticing anything, paying the utmost attention to his map, and to the lingering memories of his dreams. He didn't stop, although he wasn't used to walking for this long (Aunt Petunia did not want him to stray far from the house. Possibly to ensure that she was the sole witness to any bouts of "freakiness"), until he stood before a low, brown building of few windows. Letters hung from the lintel above the door, huge so as to be seen from a distance: Whinging Public Library, Little Whinging Branch.

He pushed open the door, stamped the snow out of his shoes on the carpet, and strode into the library, for the first time in his life.

There were quite a few bookcases here, but the grandeur of the palace library could not be rivaled. He found himself feeling oddly… cheated.

He looked around at all the shelves full of books, and knew he had a problem. No amount of planning would have been sufficient for this. His eyes alit, at length, upon a sign suspended from the ceiling hanging over the front desk, which bore that same label. As good a place to start as any, he decided, and walked towards it.

He was well aware that, owing to his small stature, adults often mistook him for a much younger child. He was used to being talked down to, as if he were only five or six. There was only a brief flare of irritation when the worker at the front desk, a woman with curly brown hair, probably in her mid-twenties, set down her book as he approached, with an indulgent smile.

"Ah, hello," she said, and at least her voice wasn't patronising. "Welcome to Little Whinging Public Library. Can I help you find something?"

Harry decided that he loved librarians. No need to beat around the bush (although she probably just wanted to return to her book). He wasted no time in summarising the situation in a frantic rush.

"Er_—_My name is Harry Potter, and I'm looking for a book, but I don't know where to start. I only have today to look for it, really, and I'd like to find something before the library closes, because I don't have a library account, or anything, and my aunt and uncle don't approve of reading, so I don't want to take any books home in case they damage them. I've never used the library before, but maybe you could help me find books on someplace_—_I don't know much about it, just that there's a bridge made out of a rainbow, and_—_"

He frowned, reconsidering the wisdom of mentioning his mother, and Heimdall.

"Oh! Are you talking about the Norse myths?" asked the woman. "Heidi knows a lot more about them than I, I think. She'd never forgive me if I let anyone else introduce an interested party to them. They're quite fascinating. Hold on a second. Heidi!"

She said all of this very quickly, leaving Harry with the sense that he might have just been hit by an oncoming train. What? What? What? What was going on, now? Norse myths? What was the woman talking about?

A much older woman came striding from a room behind the woman at the front desk. She was rather older than the first woman, and she wore circular glasses. He stared at her. Unlike the younger woman, this one looked just as he had expected an old librarian to.

He realised that his thoughts had wandered only when she tutted, snapping, "Well, come along, then, we don't have all day!"

He followed her in obedient silence through a maze of bookshelves, with her occasionally pausing to glance at a book.

"Ah, here we are. I suppose you're too young to have been instructed on the Dewey Decimal System, and the card catalogue."

Was he? Or had the Dursleys merely ensured that he had somehow missed those lessons? No, surely even they wouldn't go _that_ far, would they?

"These books might be too advanced for you, but_—_"

"I won't know unless I try," he said, taking the books she offered without glancing at them. They were a bit heavy, but he was used to heavy lifting; shoveling snow was only one of his many chores, and not the most strenuous. She lifted an eyebrow as she set a few books on top of his armload, and he still didn't make a noise of protest. She carried a book or two more, herself, over to a niche filled with tables and chairs. Harry hadn't been able to see it through a bookcase wall until they'd rounded the corner, and there it was. He set the books gently down on the table, and she added the last couple to the side, where he could reach them without having to stand on the chair, or something.

Perhaps she had meant to, but she did not disappear. Instead, the younger woman came over to find them, making Harry feel a bit of an exhibition.

He opened the first of the books, glancing upwards with an inquisitive tilt of the head, but he was too polite to ask why she was still there.

"Ah, that book is rather simplistic," the old woman said, "but it gives a useful summary, and tends to be more…popular with children." In other words, it was simplified, and had plenty of pictures. That was fine. He had been looking for a brief synoptic version first, anyway, to check if he were even on the right track.

"Thank you," he told her. "You've been very helpful."

She did not, of course, leave. The younger woman went back to her desk, but, throughout the evening, periodically returned to check on him.

Harry glanced at the Table of Contents (he had _some_ idea as to how to use reference materials, if only on account of dream guidance), and skimmed the entries. Unfortunately, they seemed to reference specific myths, for the most part. Simplistic titles such as _Why Odin Wears an Eyepatch_, or _The Banishment of Hel_. Which looked as if it ought to be a typo. But at the top of the Table, on page _vii_, there was a family tree. That had the potential to answer some questions.

He turned to page _vii_, and then had to rotate the book ninety degrees to glance at it.

He started at the bottom, even though he didn't know the name of either him or of his brother. The entries in the Royal Family of Asgard, for the last generation, said, "Hel, Thor, Loki". "Loki"'s name had a dotted line connecting it to the genealogical line above it, which the legend said indicated an indirect relation_: _adoption, marriage, and distant descendants. Far too multipurpose, that.

He followed the main branch up from "Thor", instead, to Odin (the man from the myth with the eyepatch, hmm?), followed the solid line across to the second name.

Stopped. Stared. _Frigga_. There, in a book. Maybe, then….

Maybe he _was_ on the right track. He stopped, setting the book aside, and leant back, thinking.

_Three_ children of Odin and Frigga listed_—_or maybe one was a distant descendant, but he doubted it. Frigga looked too young…. The eldest child was banished_—_perhaps that was why Harry had never encountered him or her. That left _two_, for the two princes. Thor and Loki. Which was _he_? He didn't know. He couldn't tell. But there must be some way to learn. There _had_ to be. He was not about to quit now, not when he'd come this close!

"Uh…Mrs. Everett-Smith?" he asked, reading the older woman's nametag. She gave him an unimpressed stare in return. Librarians, Harry decided, were a bit alarming.

"Do you know where to find more about_—_do you know which of these books would be the best reference for learning about_—_" he stumbled over the unfamiliar names, even though they were simple, and he was staring at them on the family tree, "_—_Thor and Loki? And their family? And why does Loki have a dotted line_—_?"

The woman began sifting through the stack of books, setting some aside, in a frenzy of motion. Harry stared. The younger librarian giggled, recalling her to his mind.

Were they _this_ bored? _Or_ dedicated?

"These are _myths_, child_—_"

"My name's Harry Potter," he grumbled, and she seemed not to hear him, but ploughed right on.

"_—_and as _myths_, there are few agreed-upon details. The book you were just studying tells _one_ version of the myths, but the originals are quite old, and the Vikings did not leave us much in the way of a written record_—_" cue the waspish, sarcastic smile, "_—_and these myths have therefore been further influenced by the Christianisation of Europe. That is why it is so important to have this many books, as many different references as possible.

"For, see, in the book you were just looking at, yes, Thor is listed as the middle child_—_and elder son, of Odin and Frigga, but in _this_ one_—_" she pulled out a heftier volume, and almost _slammed_ it down before him. "Loki is the best friend of Odin, and unconnected to the royal family, and in _this_ one, Thor's mother is named 'Freya', and in _this_ one_—_"

He would never be able to keep track of which book said what if she kept piling them up in different stacks.

"I get the point," he hastened to interject. "Alright, then, where would you suggest looking for more information on Thor and/or Loki?" It was best, he decided, to narrow down his area of focus, for the moment. He could always expand it, later, as he got a better grasp of things, and learnt more information.

He was half-expecting a disapproving frown at his rudeness_—_he _had_ twice interrupted her_—_but instead, she ceased from her rearranging, and looked down at him from beneath her spectacles once more.

"As he is one of their most popular gods, you will find information and stories about Thor in just about any of these books. They will, of course, conflict_—_"

He had tuned her out, his mind caught on one single word: _gods_. Thor was a _god_? As in, the boy who was perhaps his brother (or he, himself), was a _god_? And did that make _him_ a god, too? Wasn't that a mark of hubris, to think yourself a god? But he hadn't known_—_he had had _no_ idea, until it had hit him just now. _Gods_. This merited much contemplation.

In retrospect, he should have suspected after she had started speaking of _Vikings_, who had all died out or something a millennium ago, but he had, unconsciously, just dismissed it as the events having taken place longer ago than he had originally thought. But, if what she had said were true, they _might_ have taken place long ago_—_and the characters in them would still be alive, looking much as they had, for most of them.

There were so many questions this new information raised, in addition to the one of hubris. Could these dreams be _real_? _Could_ he be the boy of the dreams at all, if said prince _were_ a god?

And what of Christianity? He'd celebrated Christmas, after a fashion, with the Dursleys. Their idea of Christmas had been a gift of some old hand-me-downs, and to keep him on his toes all day (as if the clothes were a reward), cooking the Christmas dinner, and keeping Uncle Vernon plied with (usually) scotch. But still…now the thought of it struck him as…strange. A god celebrating the birth of _another_ god, whose worship had caused him to cease to be worshipped? A _rival_ god?

_You're getting ahead of yourself, Harry_, he told himself. _Perhaps, the names are only a coincidence…._

But that defeated the whole purpose of his research, didn't it? If he couldn't trust that the information had _any_ relevance, then why not quit right now? He _might_ yet arrive home early enough that his punishment for being late might not be too severe. And yet, he stayed. He _had_ to continue. Perhaps, somewhere, he'd learn something that would prove this was all a waste of time, or the opposite, that this had been a worthwhile sacrifice. He wouldn't know unless he kept looking.

"_Gods_?" he interrupted, only about fifteen seconds after she had used the word herself. (He was a quick thinker, had _had_ to think fast, on his feet.) "They're _gods_?"

"Well, not really," said the librarian whose name he didn't know. "It's not as if anyone worships them anymore."

Harry was barely paying attention, feeling a bit faint at recent events, but he shook himself, and refocused.

"Yes, they're the old Norse Gods," said Heidi Everett-Smith. "That's why it's called 'Norse Mythology'. Honestly, children these days_—_"

He interrupted again (she seemed to respect that, or at least not mind), "And what of Loki?"

He repressed a groan when she shifted a few heavy tomes out from the middle of the original stack. "He features in quite a few different myths, but is most reliably to be found amongst your various sources in those myths concerning Ragnarök. Their version of the Apocalypse," she explained, seeing his flash of confusion. "I would start with those. It should give you a better groundwork with which to work."

"Thank you," he said, mind once again awhirl, struggling to process even _more_ new information.

She did not leave him alone, even still. Some corner of his mind that could concern itself with trivial things wondered if it were because he had admitted to not having a library account, and this meant he required greater scrutiny. Or maybe it was true, and he _did_ look a delinquent, as Aunt Petunia said.

He ran a hand through his permanently mussed hair, and reopened the first book, skimming down the Table of Contents for the word he'd just heard, uncertain as to its exact spelling, but trusting in his quasi-knowledge of the language (maybe) to help him out, although it had done him no good before.

He started with this book, as he admitted to himself, only because it was the one he _knew_ listed _Frigga_ as having two _sons_. Somehow, that fact made it seem more trustworthy, although he chastised himself for putting too much faith in an indirect source. Only his dreams were _truly_ trustworthy sources of information.

Fittingly, the tale of the end of the world was near the very back of the book. According to the book, Loki was the one to set Ragnarök. in motion_—_how, it didn't say_—_and then Thor saved the day, preventing the destruction of the gods by removing them to another of the Nine Realms.

He frowned. And not only because that phrase sounded vaguely familiar. He was staring at the pictures, as the children who read this book were meant to. Hel, the Goddess of Death from whom Asgard needed saving, was depicted as being a beautiful woman with long, black hair, the same as Harry's own, and a wicked, cruel smile. Thor, red-haired and blue-eyed, looked heroic in the hauberk and greaves the artist depicted him in.

And he bore a hammer, destroyed in the tale's beginning. Harry had forgot the hammer in the dreams, until now. Not that it mattered. That first dream, the only dream in which that hammer (Mjölnir, said the book) had appeared, had been the weeklong dream. The one before he'd become one of the princes. The hammer had not made an appearance, since, and he didn't know whether it belonged to him, or to his brother, anymore.

But Loki…Loki was _blue_ with red eyes. That was the first thing Harry noticed.

Not one of them was blond. And the only dark-haired among them was Hel_—_Loki was depicted as hairless. So much for _that_.

"Mrs. Everett-Smith?" he asked, without looking up. "Why is Loki so different from the others?"

She peered over his shoulder, he knew, in the same way you knew when you were being watched. It was a feeling. "Well, these depictions are the artists' imaginings of how the characters might look_—_it's called 'artistic license', child. If they fancy, if 'inspiration strikes them' thus, they can draw pictures rather different from what authors describe. But Loki probably _would_ look rather different from the rest of the pantheon, if he were real. According to this volume, he is the adoptive son of Frigga and Odin, the king and queen of Asgard, and the adopted brother of Thor. But in reality, he's a frost giant from the 'realm' known as 'Jotunheim'."

_Did everyone know that but I?_ a tiny voice whispered inside Harry's mind. It was probably whatever part of him most thoroughly overindulged in his dreams. Felt too strong of a connection. There had been no _hint_ of an adoption.

There had been no _hint_ of such! How could it possibly be? But was it true?

He frowned, puzzling over the new information, left reeling now for the third time in less than an hour. Life refused to give him a break.

"And the other myths?" he asked, reaching at last for one of the heavier volumes Everett-Smith had set aside.

"I think you might be able to discover that for yourself, Mr. Potter," said the librarian, not unkindly. He blinked, looking up at her, at last, as she finally left him be.

What was _that_ all about?

* * *

Several hours later, Everett-Smith and Forgot-to-Introduce-Herself had each stopped by several times to answer more questions, or, in the latter's case, to tease him about how long he'd spent researching (or to worry?), telling him that he'd need glasses if he kept staring at these books all day. Somehow, he doubted it. As far as he knew, no one in his family—either family—wore glasses. But he didn't contradict her. With the immediate shock over with, he set to absorbing as much information as he could, before seven o'clock hit, and the library closed.

Everett-Smith had been correct in assuring him that Thor featured prominently in all of the volumes he skimmed through. And his name, unlike the names of Frigga and Hel, was always the same. It was a reassuring constant. The courage of Thor was inspirational. It had Harry vowing, no matter who it turned out his dream-self was, that he would grow up to be just like Thor. A much as was possible.

Most of the other gods were much less consistently described, such as Hel or Hela, sometimes the daughter of Loki, sometimes the daughter of Odin, always a goddess having some association with the underworld, and with Fenris, or Fenrir, the great wolf (sometimes also a child of Loki). A couple of books mentioned also a third child, the Midgard Serpent.

None of these names or characters were familiar to Harry. But Ragnarök continued to haunt him. Had Loki already brought about the end of Asgard, and what he was seeing was, somehow, a memory of Asgard-that-had-been? Was it yet to come, or not to come at all? Who among the unfamiliar characters lurked, hidden still, in the backdrop of his dreamscape?

And, he admitted, as he helped the librarians put away the many tomes he had amassed during his research, what of the two princes? Neither of them hated Asgard, neither of them sought for its destruction (he assumed that Asgard was the world in which the palace lay). He could not imagine either having sufficient _malice_ to cause the dream-people _deliberate_ harm.

"It was nice meeting you, Harry," said the younger woman, with a warm smile, as they had finished putting the books back, and he was turning towards the door. "Please come back again next week. I'll teach you how to use the card catalogue. It is rare to find a child as young as you as passionate about reading."

He shrugged. Well, she probably thought he was six or seven years old.

"Thank you, Miss. For all of your help," he said, in lieu of a less polite reply.

He was almost to the door, when she called out, "Wait!"

Weren't libraries supposed to be places of quiet? He turned to face her, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You forgot your coat!"

This could be awkward. He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. He could tell the truth, and nothing would come of it, but he couldn't resist trying to call attention to the Dursleys'…_sketchy_ behaviour.

"I don't have one," he said, turning to leave again.

She probably thought he was lying, that he'd somehow forgot it, and didn't remember where, or something.

"You don't…have one…?" Incredulity oozed from her voice. "But…how are you going to get home? It's getting dark out…."

"I'll walk. I'll be fine; don't worry about me. I'm used to it; it doesn't really bother me."

That wasn't even quite the never-complain soldier mentality that Asgard had taught him, either. He didn't mind the cold that much, probably because he'd never had more than an old, worn blanket to keep him warm in his draughty cupboard, and the Dursleys couldn't be bothered with getting him winter wear.

Before she could make further comments, he strode out the front doors, again, not yet quite to the point of worrying about how the Dursleys would react when he arrived home after nightfall. They'd be furious_—_not out of concern for his safety, but rather because he'd spent most of his day free of their watchful eyes.

He foresaw at least a week in the cupboard, with no meals. But it was worth it. It had to be. Even though, as he was well aware, a week without food was the _mildest_ sentence his "family" might dish out, and in reality, he should expect far worse. He'd make it. He had his dreams of Asgard to strengthen and nourish him.

As he walked down the darkened streets, he pondered all that he had learnt and read today. Thor and Loki. Odin and Frigga. Hel, Fenrir, and Ragnarök. He still couldn't believe that either of the boys he knew (one of whom he _was_. Maybe.) would deliberately harm Asgard. Perhaps it was all an unfortunate accident.

Of course, there _was_ also the matter of Loki's adoption to consider. Not one hint had reached his ears, not even the barest _suggestion_, that either of them was, in fact, _not_ a royal prince born of Frigga. Perhaps…well, how would _he_ react, living such a privileged life, with respect, and love, and then to have that be revealed to all be a lie? All a lie, all along.

No, not how would _Harry_ react. How would the prince react, both raised always knowing support and love, taking it as a given, perhaps even for granted. Would he feel betrayed? Would he reject their love as a trick? Would he wonder why the secret had been kept from him, and long to meet his birth family? In what few books Harry had read, adopted children from whom that secret was kept usually reacted thus. Perhaps, that not-quite-innocent secret was the beginning of Loki's fall from grace?

At the word, _fall_, Harry shivered, but couldn't name why. It wasn't the cold of the English February night. It was something else, a glimmer of…memory? Falling….

He turned aside, and resolved to think on this more, later. Perhaps his dreams, themselves, would provide some answers.


	5. Thor and Loki

**Chapter Five: Thor and Loki**

He _did_ continue to dream, but his dreams continued to be evasive. The entire rest of the month of February was spent considering whether or not he should pray for greater clarity in his dreams, and if he did, whom to? He was well-aware that this was not the usual sort of dilemma a preteen faced, but, for once, was past caring.

He wanted to have this whole thing sorted out, but his recalcitrant dreamscape refused to oblige. He spent his time in starvation locked in his cupboard, taking strength from his dreams of Asgard. One point of note was that, now he knew to listen for it, he _did_ occasionally hear the name "Asgard" mentioned_—_as well as Midgard, and Jotunheim. There were probably other names of other realms mentioned, but he hadn't encountered them in his books, and therefore didn't know to pay attention to them. Oh, well.

Although his dream-self was now in the difficult teens stage (although it probably wasn't _teens_; who knew how old _any_ of them truly were?), the family remained endearingly close. Dream-Harry _was_ perhaps drifting away from his brother, somewhat, as they each had their own interests, and Harry's brother's friends were sometimes…rowdy. There was a thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his subconscious might be glossing over the more unpleasant aspects of Dream-Harry's life at this point. No family had _that_ few problems, after all.

And they might have a few skeletons in the closet. Such as a hidden older sister Goddess of Death or the Underworld. And Loki's adoption. Harry didn't care about Loki being adopted_—_he knew that that didn't matter_—_but he sensed that _neither_ of the two princes would react well to the news that _he_ was adopted. They didn't have ten years of life with the Dursleys to compare their lives to. They didn't know that complete strangers were completely capable of being closer to true family than those related to you by blood.

But as time progressed, and February turned to March, Harry's dream-self continued to slip further away from his brother and father (Odin?). Even as their faces grew clearer to Harry's mind's eye, their appearances became more sporadic, as if to make up for it. He missed that closeness, although he was reluctant to admit it to himself.

He was secretly perhaps a bit impressed that the dreams had managed an entire month of intelligible speech without _once_ using either of the dream princes' names. That was a remarkable feat. He was sure it was possible only because of Frigga's lessons in magic, continuing even with Harry in his teens (or…whatever passed for them). He could spend entire _nights_ with nothing else but magic, and his mother's instruction.

In that first week, it was the closest thing to nourishment he had. In the dark of his cupboard, he set to seeing what of his magic lessons he could bring into the waking world. That, too, could be evidence of the dreams' reality. And the Dursleys had left him with nothing else to do. He wondered what they'd told the school, to excuse his absence. He wondered how they continued to get away with their behaviour.

Remembering his mother's first lesson, he reached for the magic inside himself, rather than using the too-distant energy of the nearest place-with-magic he knew. It probably wasn't very smart, using energy when he knew that lack of food was already taxing his body, but he shoved any such concerns aside. He would start building up his magical reserves, if such existed, and he would follow his mother's dream-guidance, and he would teach _himself_ magic, if need be.

With this resolution in mind, he leant back against the hard, scratchy wood of his cupboard, and tried to ignore the discomfiture, because this was _important_. The lightbulb hanging overhead had burnt out a decade ago, and his aunt and uncle never had seen fit to replace it_—_what was the point? They couldn't be bothered, and, if Harry had ever suffered from nyctophobia, it had gone long ago. And yet…there was more that he could do in his cupboard, if he just had _light_.

Magic had been a matter of something like instinct, in his dreams. It came naturally, unpredictably, but could be tamed. He remembered how to reach for it, how to turn his desires into realities. That seventh sense, that located magic, had never quite shut, no matter how the Dursleys had tried to cut it off, and he knew how to find magic in himself. Draw it out, and as you drew, shape it into what you desired. Simple. Difficult. Everything either a raging success, or a colossal failure.

Light appeared overhead, and Harry stared at it, and smiled. Some reality there, then, after all.

And he continued to practice with what he remembered of lessons for the rest of his time of punishment. Their plan to punish him would backfire; he would see to that. He was careful never to work magic, or to have any magic-working up when the Dursleys came to check on him. Maintaining even the light overhead was difficult enough, at first, but as the days passed, he was able to keep it up for longer and longer, and then not to have to constantly pay attention to it, and then to do that and something _else_. But that took quite some time.

But, he had learnt patience, growing up with the Dursleys. He could wait.

Meanwhile, he lived only vicariously, in dreams. That would have to be enough for him. The Dursleys at length _did_ let him out of the cupboard, keeping him on short commons for another week, and things slowly returned to normal.

His hidden revenge was that his hair grew faster than usual in his imprisonment_—_long enough by the time of his release for him to tie it back, as the prince who was his dream-self sometimes did. He knew that it displeased Aunt Petunia, and knew further still that there was nothing she could do to stop him from doing this.

It was "accidental" magic_—_not that that would prevent her punishing him_—_but it was just barely realistic enough that she could not honestly say that she was sure that any magic had been in play at all. She'd already learnt that cutting his hair was a futile endeavour. It was not much for rebellion or resistance, but any little thing was _something_.

Harry considered going back to the library, again. He'd refused to tell the Dursleys whither he'd gone (part of the reason for the severity of his punishment, he knew), and thus was not yet forbidden from going to the library. Dudley would never catch him there. But he had to be careful. He had to plan well.

Meanwhile, he gathered data from his dreams. There wasn't that much to be learnt, for the rest of February, save for Frigga's ever-helpful magic lessons. His mother might not have known _quite_ how to teach him how to use magic, but she gave him a solid base off of which to build, and Dream-Harry's trials and experimentation with magic provided further fodder for Waking-Harry to work with.

He scrutinised the data, what little he could glean concerning Asgard, and the royal family, but there was little further to be learnt, with his dreams being stubbornly reluctant to show too much. And was that the operative word: "too"? He sometimes had the sense that his subconscious was trying to protect him from the inevitable blow that would come when everything fell apart, as, life being life, he couldn't help knowing that it would.

And the reckoning did come, but not in February, or even March.

When March came, he had half-expected to find that the dreamscape had shifted radically yet again. But it hadn't. Its inhabitants were marginally older, the family slightly more distanced from one another, and the two boys were probably about halfway through their teenage years. Had they been…you know, _human_. As it was, he had the feeling that they were each several centuries old, although _how_ many centuries, he couldn't guess.

Age did not seem to factor into his dreams. Mother remained young and beautiful, Father was perhaps prematurely wizened with age (and, as it turned out, he _did_ have an eyepatch, one of the few data gathered in February). And then, there were the two of them, always seeming about the same distance apart in age, it was impossible, still, to tell by looking who was older.

Both of them had graduated from instruction in combat, which meant that his brother often volunteered them for missions that would be considered a death wish for humans. It read a bit like the adventure prompts from one of Dudley's videogames: please go to town _x_, my lord, and save it from _y_. There were plenty of other people who might also have handled the situation, but somehow, it always fell to them, and his brother's friends. The _how_, he knew, was the other prince, himself.

And that was the _authorised_ expeditions into dire peril. You had to admire Heimdall's resolve, his tenacity, which enabled him to refuse a prince of the realm flat out. Harry's dream-self sometimes wished _he_ had that sort of nerve, and then realised that it wouldn't matter. If he refused to go, that wouldn't stop his brother, and maybe the idiot would get himself killed, and then where would everyone be? He tried reasoning, instead, which went over the other's head, and pleading, which rarely, but sometimes, worked, and saved that dread trick known as "telling" for truly foolhardy missions.

And if Father always knew that they'd gone haring off into danger, why didn't he stop them? Was he hoping that someday, they'd grow up, or did he only _feign_ omniscience, and in reality, he learnt of their absence only when it was too late to stop them? Perhaps one day, he'd tell them. If they lived long enough, and Harry was starting to doubt that they would.

And yet, he was rather grateful to these little adventures, because otherwise, he was sure, the dreams would have kept the princes' names from him, the "who's who", for at least another month. Everyone _would_ persist in calling him "brother", or "my son", or "my lord", and such, as relevant. It would take something a bit more _extreme_ to prompt an atypical reaction.

Or his dreams were deliberately keeping the information from him. Perhaps they censored out the names, or even replaced them with the more familiar phrases. There was a lingering sense that his subconscious was trying to shield him from some sort of forgotten trauma that would awaken once their true names were revealed. It did not bode well.

But it was inevitable, one way or the other. _The truth will out_, as they say, and Harry had the sense that, although the other usual "truth" saying was that _the truth __will__ set you free_, in reality, this truth was more of a cage of barbed wire. He sensed that he would not _like_ the answer, when it came. And that he would like even less what happened after.

And he was right, of course. Deep down, he probably already knew, if there were any _legitimate_ connection between _him_ and _them_.

It was an incontrovertible fact, such that even the Warriors Three, who did not like Harry, and took pains to make light of his achievements, could not deny it, that Harry's brother would have _died_ on that particular battlefield, had Harry not been there. The blow he took to his side was, despite Harry's quick action, hardly shallow, and Harry knew nothing of healing. Nor was it the only one.

He'd spent the rest of the battle at his brother's side, ensuring that he didn't do something _stupid_, such as rush the enemy (Waking-Harry never did figure out what they were; he suspected that they were some manner of giants, perhaps made of rocks, but his infrequent visits to the library were deemed better turned to other research).

With his brother out of commission, it fell to Harry to attempt to lead the others, whilst trying to prevent his brother from re-entering the fray, or moving and exacerbating his wounds, and trying to defend him from the enemy, who had scented blood.

"I believe we may be slightly outnumbered. Might I suggest a tactical retreat?"

His query fell on deaf ears. They were ignoring him, to a man. All except Sif, who caught sight of her friend's state, and came over to serve as a second bodyguard.

"Will he live?" she asked, her tone indicating that she understood full well the gravity of the situation. It made sense. As a woman, she would have been discouraged from entering combat situations at all, and therefore, had developed far less of the machismo that permeated Asgard's warrior culture. She might even be able to be reasoned with.

"This is no minor wound. He is still conscious, which is a good sign, but we must hurry, if we are to make good our escape. He does not have that much time, I think."

He didn't look at her. All of his attention was on his attempt to funnel magic out of his own reserves to the purpose of at least providing his brother with enough focus to remain conscious. He didn't know how to heal, and was unwilling to risk the possibility of exacerbating the injury.

"A war is rarely determined by the outcome of a single battle. If we accept that they have planned well for our arrival, and laid an ambush, and concede this battle, we might yet be able to save him. But we must leave _now_."

He could feel his efforts failing, and sharpened his focus, fixating upon the problem at hand. Somehow, she managed to recall the others. He would probably never know how. He had transcended the usual boundaries of awareness, until he had only a tentative grasp on the outside world. He was trusting in Sif to protect them both from danger, and doing his best to staunch the flow of blood.

The next thing he consciously knew, when the world returned to him, his hand was being gently removed from the wound by a presence so familiar he didn't have to look to see who it was. Which was just as well, because he would likely have attacked almost anyone else who tried to separate them, with his brother so critically injured.

"Peace, my son. He will live. I will not stop you, if you wish to stay, but be warned that healing is not always the most pleasant magic to observe, especially not when the injury is this severe. No one will think less of you if you leave. You must be tired. I can sense that you have supplemented his fading life energy with your own. Did I not warn you of the perils of such a choice?"

"What else would you have had me do, Mother?" he asked. "I feared he would die. I did the only thing I could think of or knew how to do to prolong his life, and even that_—_"

"Peace," she said, again. "Please, retire to your bedchamber. I will let you know when he wakes." Had his brother fallen unconscious, despite his efforts? "I believe he would prefer that you not see him in such a state."

He left the room, his brother's bedchamber, but he did not return to his own. He sat down outside the door, instead, and drew his knees up to his chest. His battle armour was marvelously flexible, which was just as well, because removing it would mean leaving to acquire a change of clothes more suitable for daily wear, and he could not even bring himself to leave for the brief period of time it would take to clean the blood from his hands. His brother's blood. Today had been an unmitigated disaster. But it would be well, in the end; Mother could do anything, could _heal_ anything.

He had the sense that he fell asleep outside his brother's door, waiting. Mother was right. He _was_ exhausted, but there was an unjust part of him that chastised himself for falling asleep before he knew that his brother would live. Never before had he been so aware that they could be killed, and injured, and bleed, as any other creature.

_The Midgardians call us gods_, he mused to himself, during the half hour or so between his taking up vigil, and falling asleep. _But then, they also tell tales of our demise. Are those tales __**real**__, then?_

His brother was too young to die according to the tales, but perhaps fate could be thwarted. He knew little else of the tales besides….

He jolted awake to his mother's voice, startling him from forgotten dreams, if gods dreamt at all. They probably did.

"Loki? Ah. Had I but thought, it would have been clear to me that you would not leave before knowing that he was well. They say that you are the more disobedient of my sons."

He shook sleep from his thoughts. "He will live?" he asked, knowing what she had said, but needing to hear the words again, to be _certain_.

"He wishes to speak with you," she said, holding out a hand for him. "You think too little of your abilities. I have made him understand the extreme danger and folly of his actions_—_these choices, at least_—_and he wishes to thank you."

He stood on his own power, and she reached up to rest a hand on his head, gently. "You have done well this day. Asgard and I both thank you, as well. I know you often feel…estranged. It is not easy, that your strengths lend themselves to different attitudes than those prevalent in our society. But understand that _we_ will always support you, including Thor, no matter how he might sometimes speak."

And then she opened the door, and gently pushed him inside.

You would never know that his brother had been wounded, but then, that was to be expected, he thought to himself. But for a certain unusual pallor, and the shaking of the hand he stretched out from his bed, you would not think Thor injured at all. Their mother was truly a skilled healer, which was just as well.

"Loki?" his brother asked, and Harry, without asking, took the wooden chair he knew his mother had just been sitting on. He hesitated to reach out, as if this were all an illusion, and if he touched him, his brother might _die_, after all.

"I'm here," he said, sitting down and crossing his arms loosely in his lap. "Mother said you wished to speak with me."

"You saved my life," Thor began. His voice was quieter than it should be.

"Do you seek for your own demise, Thor?" Harry demanded, recent concern emerging as anger. "We might have saved your life this once, but there will certainly be others, and you might not be so lucky, next time." He closed his eyes, leant back, straightened up, and redirected his attention, all before Thor could formulate a response. "And what is _my_ purpose, for you? Am I your bodyguard?" he added, seeing that his brother (the idiot) did not understand. "Am I your vassal? Am I your attendant?"

"You are my _brother_, and therefore my _equal_," Thor replied, his tone and expression surprisingly earnest. There was a hint there, the promise of a just and wise king, which would likely never be realised. Harry might have scoffed.

Instead, he leant forwards again, mindful of his mother, last seen standing outside the door. "Not for very much longer. Today made me cognisant of a very important fact: you are the Crown Prince, and someday, you shall be king. If you live long enough," he amended, thinking that this seemed an increasingly unlikely prospect. "And none could deny you have much need of a vassal, or a bodyguard_—_"

"When I am king, you shall be my advisor, and a king in your own right. I will see to it. You have told me that I am rash, and reckless, and do not think often enough before I take action. I would need your counsel more than ever, as king. There need not be such difference between us. I trust no one more than you."

He was not making this easy. Harry closed his eyes again, trying not to be affected by Thor's sincerity. This was an important lesson, one his brother seemed determined not to learn. He had almost _died_ today, and it would happen again, if it happened once. There was truth enough in one part, at least, of the argument of the Warriors Three: the enemy would be emboldened by their success, such as it was, today. They would know that the Asgardians _could_ be harmed, could be killed, could be defeated. Word would spread. Thor must _not_ go seeking out danger.

"It cannot be denied that you need much minding, and today it fell to me to be your minder. Perhaps, then, that is to be my lot_—_forever to keep you from doing yourself injury, as a nursemaid to a child."

Thor's fists clenched into the soft cloth of his blanket. Well, he was listening. Perhaps, if shamed enough, if driven far enough, the knowledge would stick, as it hadn't through lesser means.

Harry braced himself, and then continued. "Then, perhaps I should be your vassal, and your bodyguard, sworn to protect you with my own life." He stood, and then knelt on one knee, head bowed. Vulnerable the man on his knee, no weapon drawn to protect himself, no servant to defend him.

A worthy thought for such a time. It was just as well he couldn't see his brother's face. He wondered what the reaction to this turn of events would be.

"Then I, Loki Odinsson, Prince of Asgard_—_"

"Brother, no," Thor begged, his voice hoarser than it had been seconds ago. Harry ignored him, and ploughed on. Good. It seemed to be working. He was, at _long last_, making an impression as to the severity of the situation. Would it last?

He spoke louder, drowning out his brother's continued protestations. This was necessary, and worth it, if it worked.

"_—_do hereby swear my undying loyalty and allegiance, to Thor Odinsson, Crown Prince of Asgard, heir apparent to the throne of Asgard, to protect and defend him from all danger and harm, if it be within my power, to the cost of my life. I swear this on my honour as a prince of Asgard."

"Loki." Warning in the voice, now. "What have you _done_?"

"We were never equals, Brother, and your life is more valuable than mine. It is vital to Asgard that you _live_."

Perhaps, now, he would see. Harry stood, once more, to glance down at his brother. His face was twisted in pain, but, as Harry watched, he seemed to be levering himself up. What was he doing? What? What? What?

Thor threw down the blankets, revealing his usual, favoured outfit, all crimson and brown_—_very flashy, very noticeable.

He hissed in pain as he raised himself to his feet, and turned to face Harry, who could not, for the life of him, figure out what he was planning _now_.

"Brother, stop! Your injuries_—_!"

"Mother has seen to them," said Thor. "This_—_is important."

A ragged gasp interrupting his sentence suggested he was not as recovered as he was pretending.

"You should rest_—_" Harry began, but Thor waved him off. And _knelt_. Knelt, before his brother, before Harry, before Loki, the younger son, the unnecessary one, the spare. An inkling of an idea of what his brother was about crept into his mind. It felt unreal, too stupid to be true. Too clever to be Thor's idea.

"Then _I_, Thor Odinsson, Crown Prince of Asgard, do hereby swear my undying loyalty and allegiance_—_"

"_—_You can't_—_" Harry said, at a loss for words, for perhaps the first time in his life. This was _absurd_.

"—to Loki Odinsson, Prince of Asgard, to protect and defend him from all danger, and harm, if it be within my power, to the cost of my life. I swear this on my honour, as a prince of Asgard."

Impossible. Harry couldn't move. He just stared, for a moment. Thor dragged himself to his feet, as Harry stood, stunned, unable to move, only watching as Thor sat on the bed.

"You_—_you _can't_. I am your _younger_ brother. You outrank me_—_"

"And yet, you ignored my order that you cease from your oath-binding. Is that the behaviour of a vassal, or of a lord?"

…He'd underestimated Thor all these centuries. All this time, he'd never realised that Thor was not _actually_ the idiot he usually seemed, when he was out drinking himself under a table and fighting twenty foes at once. Harry was the one known for wordplay and tricks, and yet, here, Thor had _outwitted_ him.

Any previous feelings of accomplishment vanished.

"You_—_" he said, but he had no idea what the next word would be.

It was just as well that Mother entered the room then, although it left Thor the victor outside his usual arena.

It was just as well that that dream ended there, and that none of the others stood out enough to drown out that _one_. The final dream, as if the icing on a cake, was the dream of green light, and _badness_. An omen, a portent: danger ahead.

Harry stared up at the ceiling of his darkened cupboard, ignoring Aunt Petunia's pounding on the wood, as a thin line of sun tried to break in under the cupboard door. It died soon thereafter, its valiant efforts mostly unnoticed.

_Of course_, Harry thought, as numb as his dream-self had been in That Dream. Of _course_, even in his dreams he would be the outlier, the freak, the outcast, the _different_ one. He should have known, all along, that he would be Loki, and his brother would be Thor. Of course.

Even in his dreams, his family was an illusion. A nested, endless cycle of deception, illusion, and unreality. Harry Potter's life could never be otherwise—even in dreams.


	6. Trouble in Paradise

**Chapter Six: Trouble in Paradise**

Harry took this revelation in the manner his dream-self—or he himself—would take a blow: he staggered back, and then tried to minimise attention paid to the afflicted area.

In this case, it meant trying to ignore his dreams, which was easier said than done, but increasingly necessary. You would think that the developments of the dream would change both princes' behaviour towards one another, with newfound respect for the other's love and dedication, or whatever. Instead, with agonising slowness, Thor's inability to stay out of trouble drove the two further apart—or at least, it increased Loki's resentment. Thor did not seem to notice.

His explanation for seeking out trouble had been that it was a way of proving himself a worthy warrior—worthy of the special weapon forged for him by the dwarves, the hammer Mjölnir. But, in reality, even his acquisition of said hammer changed little in his behaviour, and the hammer increasingly seemed an excuse.

And Harry—no, _Loki_—was always dragged along. And despite that, there remained a strong bond between them, one such as Harry had never known—or, if he had, it had been destroyed, sundered, long ago.

Unless it remained in his mother's bond with him. But did that even count, knowing what he now (sort of) knew about her?

For, as promised, she had returned at the end of March. The previous day had left him in sourer spirits than usual (another repeat of the dream of green light) and he had expected no reprieve. At the end of March, the dreams were already becoming more violent, harder to endure, more draining. He hadn't thought that tonight would be any different.

Yet, here he was. The cabin in the woods was surrounded by leafy trees. Flowers blossomed in the front yard, despite a complete lack of insects. Not one of them was wilted or dying. Even the best gardeners would envy the flowerboxes on the sills out front.

He threw open the door, and entered, mind still flooded with thoughts of his other set of dreams. Unlike last time, this time he welcomed the reprieve. He knew how to kill a variety of different beings, and for most of them, in a variety of different ways. He could fight as well as the princes with a blade, and knew several spells that would help in combat.

But none for healing. None for creation. None for _peace_. He might have mocked himself: _Here, before you would have rejoiced just to know that __**magic**__ was real; now you whine and whinge, that you know __**this**__, and not __**that**__._

That voice sounded a bit too much like Loki for Harry's liking. He ignored it, therefore, a bit resentful of the ingrate prince, who had a family who _loved_ him, but that was not enough. Harry would give anything, even still, to have even that fracturing family.

These were not fitting thoughts for him to have when he was about to see his mother—_Harry Potter's mother_—again. This was her cabin, built to her dreams. She had told him as much last time. No other would _dare_ to intrude upon this space.

And yet, he was unable to set the dreams aside. They haunted him in this one, perhaps more even than they did his waking hours, where there were pressing threats and issues to contend with.

Lily Evans, dressed in powder blue and violet, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She wasted no time in rushing over to wrap her arms around him in a crushing hug.

"My son," she whispered, stroking back his hair from his face. "At last, we meet again. I have missed you, these two months." She smiled at him, such a gentle smile, and Harry wondered if this was how all mothers behaved—but, no, he knew that that was not the case. Aunt Petunia fretted and fussed over Dudley, but somehow…she didn't have the same _presence_, the same _glow_ about her actions and person as Lily.

Perhaps because Aunt Petunia was still alive. He envied Dudley, who could see his mother, speak with her, with either of his parents, whenever he wished. Even this brief span of time—a single night, every couple of months (was that the rule?), did not seem quite real to Harry.

"As your mother, it is my responsibility to disapprove of your choices in fashion," she said, with a falsely stern air. She laid a hand upon his head—the touch too familiar, too _known_—, brushing the bangs forward, so that they fell into his eyes.

"Agh! Mum!" he protested, and she smiled, but the smile stayed far away from her eyes.

"I cannot bear to see that scar, that mark, that tells me that you nearly died, that I could no longer protect you. I did what I could, and you lived, but much was dependent upon chance. Too much. When I see that scar…I am reminded of the day that James and I died. The night I almost _lost_ you, for all my effort and sacrifice. And there will be those who will stare at it, who will know your name because you bear that mark, and who will use you to their own ends. Keep it covered, my son, and you might find friends who will desire your company for your own merit, rather than judging you by rumour alone."

He could understand…at least a little, of that. Aunt Petunia had told him that he had received the scar in the car crash that had killed the rest of his family, but he hadn't thought that the sight would upset his mum thus.

"Sorry, Mum", he said. He made no attempt to brush the hair back again, mindful of her words, although it made it more difficult to see.

"I understand that you did not intend to cause me pain," she said, standing, and offering him a hand up. He thought of Frigga, and Loki, who was too proud to take the hand offered, and took her hand without giving himself time to think about it.

But would he spend the rest of this life comparing his actions to Loki's, and striving to be different?

Not a good way to go through life, he decided.

He let her lead him into the living room, nevertheless, to sit down, staring in silence at the fire, as suspicion of a different sort began to bubble up in him, given credence when she said,

"You will always be my most cherished son, Harry," smiling at him, as she glanced at him, just a tilt of the head, but so _dignified_. Perhaps _too_ dignified, for Harry in his state of heightened paranoia.

"Do I have siblings, then?" he asked. He had no idea how old she had been when she'd died. He might have had an older sibling for all he knew. Women had been known to give children born before they could care for them to foster care. It was possible.

"After a fashion," she said. "You might say that you had two brothers, or one, or none at all, depending on how you thought of the question."

There was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she weren't in the moment at all.

"How can _that_ be?" he demanded, crossing his arms, uncaring if that made him look childish. This was justified. It felt as if she were playing mind games, and that—

He cut off the thought before it could complete itself. How could he have _two_ or _one_ or _none_? Adoption, stillbirth, what? There was something he was missing, and perhaps the answer was in the visible radiance around his mother, her odd, halting way of speech, mannerisms so familiar they were etched deep into his memory.

He'd seen the similarity all along, but now….

_"Yes, you did succeed more __quickly__ than I expected! Well done, my son!" Frigga said, smiling __benevolently__ at him. "You are very talented. Your father and I are quite proud of you."_

_"Oh? But magic is not an art fit for a prince of the realm. It is why Father dotes on Thor, and forgets—"_

_"He does not forget you, Loki," said Frigga, her voice firm, but not reproachful. A hint of the wisdom and age she possessed showed in her eyes, as she stepped closer. "And perhaps Thor **is** Odin's favourite__;__ although a parent should never have favourites, it is often hard not to feel…more attuned with one child than another. And although your father avoids war, he recognises that it is inevitable, and that strength in combat is necessary to defend the Nine Realms. But—"_

_She leant forwards, towards him, as if sharing a secret. "If your father has a favourite son, perhaps I do, as well."_

_He said nothing. He didn't want to jump to conclusions as to what she meant. But, then, "Do you mean to say that Thor is also __**your**__ favourite son? Is there no one who—?"_

_"No. Peace, my son. Do you wish to know why you would __be__ my favourite child, then?" she asked. "If, as a mother, I were made to choose a favourite? It is because you are __**not** like__ your brother. He may be the quintessential Asgardian youth__:__ strong, and fierce in battle, but he lacks restraint, wisdom, judgement. He lacks your patience, and also…I appreciate having a child to whom I __may__ pass on my knowledge of magic, who appreciates it even as I do. Loki, I would not change who you were, were it in my power. You are yourself. That is a good thing. And __personally__, I think Asgard has need of more __such __children."_

_He hadn't expected such a confession, even couched in hypothetical language, the gentle, subtle tilting of a scale. He had thought that everyone would think most __highly__ of his brother. Who would look at the younger son, the one who specialised in magic, next to Asgard's "quintessential youth"?_

Harry sprang to his feet, staring at the fire briefly before bolting for the kitchen. It was only a few meters (and a counter) away. He didn't know what he intended to do there, but cooking was a mindless task, the least back-breaking of the tasks the Dursleys set him to. Perhaps it would clear his mind, and help him to think.

He didn't _want_ to think, though, did he? _Suppose_, his thoughts would inevitably say, _it __**isn't **__mere happenstance? Suppose there is very good reason why your mother—Lily Evans, __ostensibly__—glows, and has a voice filled with inhuman warmth and resonance, and behaves in a way that reminds you too __powerfully__ of a queen of a realm in another world__?_

"Harry? What ails you, my son?" He knew that sentence. He knew that sentence from somewhere, and he knew the _somewhere_, although he couldn't pinpoint the specifics anymore, amongst the years (decades? centuries?) of dreams he'd had thus far.

"…Mother?" he asked. Such a ridiculous question. Neither Lily nor Frigga had reason to sense the underlying second question embedded in this one, unless they were the originatrix of those dreams.

It was no use. He'd have to ask. He needed to know, now. One way or the other. Or it would eat away at him, dog his waking hours, consume his mind. It was a question that he could get an answer to, perhaps, and that _now_.

"What is it, my son?" she asked, and something flared, fierce and bright (and cold?), something unfamiliar, and twisted: a harbinger of the coming disasters, not yet remembered.

"You aren't my mother," he said, his voice cold and harsh. She staggered, flinched, stopped where she was approaching.

"Harry, what are—?"

"I know who you are: you're Frigga, Queen of Asgard. How dare you pretend to be my mother? Was there even a 'Lily Evans' at all? How could you? How could you lie to me?"

He spun to face her, fists clenched tight. He glared down at the floor. He would be justified in attacking her for her deception, he knew.

But he could not bring himself to do it. Frigga in the other dreams had been gentle and kind, the only one to protect Loki. Even as the family now strained, breaking apart, she strove to hold it together, to meld it back into a coherent unit. Perhaps that was the reason, or perhaps it was the lack of malice. Some part of him still understood the situation, could understand Frigga's actions. That part—the part that was perhaps Loki—could not bear to see her harmed.

That did nothing to quell the anger, burning cold, and glacially slow. Shame, pain, revenge. The three linked together, feeding off one another now the cycle was set in motion.

Frigga turned to face him, eyes wide, as they began to flood with tears. This couldn't be the reunion she had desired, but _what right did she have, to impersonate a dead woman_? Goddess or no, no one had such a right.

"How—how do you know that name?" she whispered, voice now brittle and frail as spun glass.

He didn't have to answer her. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, burning holes in the floor with the strength of his glare.

"Well, it is no matter. You are _wrong_. I _am_ your mother, Harry," the queen said, and there was an odd sense, a shift somewhere in Harry's sixth and seventh senses, as the glow fell off from around "Lily", and the resonance was gone from her voice, too, when next she spoke.

"Harry, honey, _please_. We only have such a short time together. Please, let's not fight." There was none of Frigga's quiet authority in her voice when she spoke, and Harry felt his fists relax, and didn't notice when they didn't clench again. Lily came to him, and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, fiercer and more desperate than any of Frigga's, and if she'd lost the resonance and glow, nevertheless she made up for it with a strange, novel warmth, a passion, as if she put her whole soul into every action. Long red hair tickled his nose and bare arms.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," she whispered, tucking his head under her chin. She'd crouched down to hug him, and pulled him down with her. That was about as much similarity to Frigga's usual hugs as Harry could sense. Was this, then, Lily Evans—his _mother_, after all?

She pulled back, and only then did he realise that she was crying, as hot tears splashed onto his shirt.

"Is this how it has to be then, Harry? Is this the only way that I can see you?"

The air around her shimmered, and Harry pushed her away—with a gentleness that surprised _him_, never mind her—as the glow returned.

"My precious son," Frigga whispered. "My own flesh-and-blood. Will you reject me, even now?"

"You mean to say that you _are_ my mother? That I'm not just some—some _changeling_ child?— this time?" Harry asked. He couldn't help the tone of bitterness, the sharpness in his voice.

"What gives you reason to believe—? Do you—do you _remember_?" She fixed him with a wide-eyed stare that Harry could almost trick himself into believing truly saw _everything_.

"I saw it in my dreams," he said, shrugging, as if it weren't important. "When you—when you said I might have two brothers, did you mean—?"

The princes in the dream. One which he (after a fashion) _was_. Two. Or one. Or none at all, if you counted only Lily Evans, who had no other children. Was _that_ his mother's (she was, right?) mysterious math?

"You remember?" she asked, eyes downcast as the weight of her expression pulled them down. Something about his demeanour must have given him away (how could she read him with such ease?), for she continued, in a tremulous voice, "_Loki_?"

"Don't call me that," Harry snapped, recoiling as if from a physical blow. He hadn't meant to bring the other dreams here, but he had, albeit accidentally, and if there were any reality to either, now they were both interconnected. He hadn't meant to. Now it was too late to take it back. Her eyes widened, again, the glow dimmed, as if in some state of transition, in-between, _ambi-valence_,

"There is much of great importance concerning which we must speak, and yet—" she held out a hand for him again, perhaps now thinking of and remembering, too, the night when Thor had almost died. He hesitated, and then took her hand.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, knowing full well that that was insufficient for an apology. Words could not express the depths of his regret—not even just for this moment, but for events past, their memories not yet recalled. She smiled at him, but it was a sad smile.

"—I think there are other matters we must discuss first," she finished. Her sentence had probably been tending that way all along.

He let her lead him back to the living room, where it had begun. He stared at his knees, and for a moment, they sat in silence, his mother with unflagging patience, waiting, waiting, waiting. She could outwait him.

"Are you—are you truly my mother, Lily Evans?" he asked, unable to keep his voice from rising in pitch and volume. Unable to suppress that desire, longing, _hope_.

"Yes," she said, leaving no other interpretation to her words but just that which answered what he'd asked.

Another long pause. "But…" he trailed off, waiting to be interrupted. She waited, instead, and he forced himself to continue. "You're Frigga, Queen of Asgard. You're Loki and Thor's mother." _And maybe Hel's_, he added silently, where she couldn't hear.

She looked far too regal, sitting there, straight-backed, with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Yes," she said. "I _was."_

"But _how_?" he immediately continued, trusting in his haste to convey how important the question was. That and the great emphasis he put into the second word.

She sighed, looking down in her lap, where her hands lay clasped. The glow dimmed around her, and then died.

"I died," said Lily, in a voice without resonance—a simple, human woman's voice. She gave him a warm smile that he couldn't return. _Dead_. These memories, then, must all be in the distant past. Perhaps Ragnarök had come and gone, and taken the queen with it.

And it would be his—no, _Loki's_—fault.

"Oh," he said, unable to look at her.

"Asgard was under attack. An artefact of bygone days was brought by Thor, indirectly, to Asgard. He hoped that I could save the girl, but it was beyond my power. When the Dark Elves came, they killed me. I was reborn, in the past, as Lily Evans, an ordinary, human woman. I had no idea as to my true identity, until I _died_, and found refuge in your soul. Perhaps, it is because of my presence here that you remembered what should be hidden from your mind, for you must also be—"

He didn't want to hear it. Could he close his ears to her words? But perhaps it was all just a dream, after all. A way for his mind to take a break from the serious strain produced from his dreams of another world.

Lily Evans, mother of Harry Potter. Frigga, mother of Loki and Thor. And here, in this dream, they were one-and-the-same. That didn't mean it was true in the outside world. Humouring such thoughts must surely be the route to madness.

_Hardly_, scoffed the part of his mind that he had disavowed. He slammed the door on it, metaphorically speaking, and resolved anew to attempt to take things as they came.

Lily slung an arm around his shoulders—a very human gesture, and pulled him into her, to kiss the top of his head. He'd seen mothers do that on playgrounds, seen the exaggerated expressions of disgust, the sneers. There was no need for pretence here in his mind. He leant in, determined to savour every moment.

Lily Evans had done no wrong to him. She deserved for him to give her a chance.

No matter _how_ it complicated things.


	7. Winter in New York

**Chapter Seven: Winter in New York**

It was a good thing that he would see his mother again at the end of April, because he had little to look forward to. His dreams turned progressively uglier, tensions strained the once close-knit family, he at the epicentre.

_Does he not understand what he is doing?_ Harry wondered. _How his __**jealousy**__ is tearing his own family apart?_

But Thor continued to be reckless, and Loki continued to defend him, and beneath the surface, surely, trouble was brewing, and even Odin would not overlook his son's rashness forever.

The coronation approached, and Loki held out some last hope that Thor would finally take responsibility.

Instead, he led an unauthorised expedition/invasion to Jotunheim, and needed to be rescued by his father, who finally had enough. Loki tried to save Thor from his inevitable punishment (that was, honestly, a long time coming), but Odin, for once, would have none of it. He cast Thor aside, to Earth, and Loki followed, as he must.

Things only got worse, from there, with the creeping slowness of the most insidious poisons.

The Warriors Three followed Thor to Earth, and then came the battle in which Thor proved himself worthy, having finally, finally, _finally_ learnt restraint and sacrifice. He'd been remade, the impurities smelted from him by dint of his stint on Midgard, but there was no time for celebration; Loki had other plans.

Harry at last discovered his ability to distance himself from his dreams when they brought him to The Bridge. Somewhere deep, deep down, set into his bones, was the knowledge that he didn't have the stamina, the fortitude, the _strength_, to witness this from Loki's point-of-view.

Somehow, just this once, he managed to detach himself from that identity, and watch the dream from without, governed and guided by his forewarning of impending disaster.

Of course, he wasn't _completely_ detached from the prince_—_he still had to suffer the same emotions, and the occasional thought also filtered through. In the scene that lay before him_—_currently frozen, with the two princes (gods) fighting atop the Rainbow Bridge. Where was Heimdall? Nowhere to be seen.

Grace of Harry's bond with the younger prince, he knew that said prince was still distraught over recent revelations. For some reason, he seemed to believe that genocide (of the race of his birth, no less) was the solution. Prove your utter loyalty to your avowed home by ridding it of any other contenders? Wasn't that something he'd seen on one of the movies he'd snuck into the living room to watch while the Dursleys were out with Dudley on an extended vacation? (Mrs. Figg had slept right through, none the wiser, and he'd been sure to rewind the videocassette before removing it from the VCR, so there was no evidence.)

He'd never seen a _self-imposed_ test of loyalty before, however.

The air was taut as a drawn bowstring when the scene finally began to unfold before Harry's eyes. He stood back and watched, knowing that he was helpless to do anything_—_for good, or for ill.

Thor managed to damage the Rainbow Bridge_—_destroying his means of returning to the woman he loved, back on Midgard, to prevent Loki from annihilating a race he'd tried to slaughter himself only days before. Yep. That was character development for you, as his literature class would put it.

Harry was _very_ glad not to feel the physical pain of blows from Thor's hammer, Mjölnir_—_-but that did nothing to bar the _emotional_ pain of the situation. And then came the moment that Harry might have sensed was coming all along, when Loki was flung off the bridge, and was falling…falling….

Only to be caught by his father, Odin, who had recovered from his bout of frostbite-cum-Odinsleep in time to save the younger prince.

So much might have been different, had Loki not been so full of a deep-seated bitterness, anger, shame, the shock of betrayal. Perhaps they might have discussed things, and Odin would explain why genocide was wrong, that he'd done the best he could as a father, but hadn't always succeeded as much as he would have liked, but _we're still your family, and we love you, Loki. You don't have to be our child from birth to be our __**son**_. Along with any other clichés and heartwarming reconciliations you might want.

As it was, Loki dangled precariously into the abyss, one hand holding all his weight, one hand keeping him out of its depths.

Harry knew that it was calling him, a lure. His fate, all along, had been just this, and when Loki let go, fell, with a silent scream, into the void below, Harry just frowned, and sighed, and pretended he didn't feel the fear, despair, resignation, anger, that did not diminish as Loki fell.

The scene cut out, perforce, soon thereafter, because even had Harry remained as an incorporeal ghost upon the broken bridge, he nevertheless was limited to Loki's knowledge. He understood that. He was sure that, even had he been given free rein to wander the castle with furnishings intact, he would never have found the castle underbelly, for Loki had never found it.

And now, Loki was out of sight of those on the bridge_—_or rather, _they_ were out of _his_ sight, and the vision ended there.

Harry jerked awake, and although the night was only half-gone, sleep eluded him for the rest.

* * *

The next night was April Thirtieth. Never had he been as relieved to see the cabin before him. So weary that he could barely place one foot in front of the other, he braced himself against the door before slowly turning the handle, relying upon his weight, slight as it was, to push the door open. He staggered through, as if the injuries of the night before had, because he had foregone feeling them at the time, merely been held aside for him for distribution later (i.e.: tonight).

He was unaware of any obstacles in his path, had never before seen the rug he tripped on near the doorway (or had never noticed it). He crashed to the floor, but couldn't summon the energy to stand.

His mother came rushing over, rolling him onto his side, and then, with inhuman strength, lifting him to his feet. She guided him to the living room, and he followed her lead. She laid him down on the sofa, and sat on its edge, stroking the side of his face.

"Harry?" Lily asked. "What happened? Are you okay?"

No resonance. Harry groaned, and managed to sit up. He peered across at Lily, in her forest green dress and red cape. Some part of him desperately wanted to make a sarcastic comment about her choice of attire, but he hadn't the strength.

"The dreams…" he murmured. This was a dream, too, of course, but she knew that. He didn't have to explain _that_. But it occurred to him that, as a character in his dreams, she deserved to know that she had been being watched, as he had thought in that long ago time (surely it had been a few centuries, at least) before he'd gone to the library to research.

"What dreams, Harry?" she asked. He just gave her a blank, empty stare, that made her shiver at the unHarryness of it. A corpse should have that look, but not a living child.

"Mother," he said, the word chosen deliberately to invoke Frigga. He licked his lips, gathering whatever of courage he'd built up. "I told you before that I'd seen, I'd heard names and the like, in my dreams?"

She reached out to take his hand, with a regretful sigh. A half-glow, almost a halo, appeared about her. "I remember," she said, very quietly. "Then, are you willing to speak of them now, my son?"

He knew the tricks of invocation, apparently. He'd needed to speak with _Loki's_ mother, after all, and he'd drawn her out.

"The dreams are the stuff of madness, and yet you would have me believe that they are _real_. Shall I tell you what I have witnessed, and see if it matches your own knowledge?"

As a mother, she understood the unspoken message: _I need to talk to someone about this, and I have no one else to turn to_. Her expression wilted, the corners of her mouth dragged the corners of her eyes down with them.

"If you wish to speak of it, I will listen," she promised. There were other matters of which she needed to speak with him—his godfather, the traitor Pettigrew, James's third friend, Remus Lupin, the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore, Hogwarts.

She shoved them aside, for the second time. Her son's sanity was the more pressing concern, at the moment.

Harry took a deep breath, and began with the beginning. "It started the night after I turned ten…."

* * *

His next few dreams were oddly fragmented and vague. He suspected, at first, that they were merely the sign of a descent into madness, and dismissed their irregularity. He realised that they'd skipped ahead (missing time, they called it), but that wasn't even the oddest part of all this.

His dreams were fragmented, broken, and fluctuated in and out of focus, as a badly-tuned radio or television. Words, scenes, images, people, faded in and out of his awareness. There were discrepancies between what he meant to do, and what he _did_, even when the dream was "in focus".

Madness, then? No, something else. Whatever connected _before_ to _after_. A being, he thought, but a forgotten being; as if his subconscious knew that he wasn't ready to remember, it had skipped those memories entirely.

And the broken, distorted, fun-house mirror memories were, likewise, a byproduct of someone _else_ messing with his mind_._

He didn't know why he was sure of this, but he _was_. It was the same as all of the other things that he didn't know how he did.

A scene (part of a scene) in Germany (how he knew that was as much a mystery as the rest of his dream-knowledge). Harry-Loki versus a man dressed in red, white, and blue. The "star-spangled man". The "man out of time".

"I'm not the one out of time," the man said. Then, the red-and-gold robot appeared. The red-and-gold _flying_ robot. But Harry was serving as a distraction for…someone else, and he had more than enough power and experience even to fight both of them at once.

The battle wavered in-and-out of focus. Harry knew that he ended up surrendering himself as a prisoner, but the knowledge of _why_, the motivation, lay outside his reach. It couldn't be because he was outmatched. For all that these two individuals were tough, Loki was a _god_. Something else was in play.

Whispers of the unknown being, perhaps? Harry wasn't sure.

It didn't matter. The next partial scene starred him, and, of all unexpected individuals, _Thor_, his brother. It began with the ominous warning of thunder rolling overhead, with the man within the robot suit—a scraggly bearded, black-haired man—sitting across from him, and the walking American flag took a jab at him.

"What's the matter? Scared of a little lightning?"

"I'm not _overly_ fond of what follows," Loki said—a striking difference to his old viewpoint

The moment of sharpest clarity—he might almost have broken the hold of whomever the unknown being was pulling his strings as if he were a puppet—came when Thor said.

"We thought you _dead_," and Harry replied, in a rather mocking tone,

"Did you mourn?"

As if he expected a "no" after that previous statement. Instead, of course, Thor said,

"We all did." The moment cast itself into sharp relief. Thor was no longer the unpredictable, reckless one, seeking out senseless conflict. Surely, he would recognise the strangeness, the hypocrisy, in his brother waging war on the entire world (apparently).

But he didn't seem to, and the scene faded back into a muted muddle soon thereafter.

That was the last scene of the night, and it lingered with Harry, more vibrant through its contrast with the other dreams. Waking-Harry (the _real_ Harry, as Harry considered himself) had heard of the man in his dreams wearing the American flag—his name was "Captain America", and he was a renowned hero from World War II, who had fought the Nazis with abilities bolstered by a mysterious substance known as the "super serum". An entire day of class had been dedicated just to him.

They'd learnt in the next class that he'd been lost in the ice, his body never recovered. That was one point against the dreams, although the man _could_ have survived the fifty years since his disappearance—who knew how such an experimental substance might have affected his biochemistry?

The man in the red-and-gold suit was called Iron Man, but his real name was _Tony Stark_, _the_ Tony Stark, renowned genius and weapons manufacturer. That two such famous individuals also appeared in his dreams was definitely evidence against them, Harry decided, as he awoke at his normal time to prepare breakfast for the day before school.

The next night continued the strange tale of Captain America and Iron Man (and Thor), and their battle against Loki, joined by a redheaded woman (nothing similar to Lily; her hair was blood red and curly, to Lily's straight, fiery-hued hair), and her debrainwashed friend, a former minion (_what_?) of Loki's, who for some reason wielded a bow.

And a peaceful, amiable man, quiet and contemplative, who could turn into a giant green…thing.

Oh, and it took place in New York. _Modern_ New York, which shouldn't have been surprising, given the robot suit, but somehow was, nonetheless, when Harry awoke.

Except it wasn't even _modern_ New York, was it? Not with ads for Stark's clean energy project, and Stark Tower (powered by one of his arc reactors, it would sustain _itself_, electricity-wise). Stark was still in the weapons trade, as far as he knew. A quick glance at a newspaper on the following day confirmed it.

Did these dreams pretend to be visions of the _future_, then? Impossible. Ten points, at least, against their reality. Harry almost _sagged_ with relief. They couldn't possibly be true, and he wasn't going mad. It was just the overactive imagination Vernon Dursley had done his utmost to stamp out of him. Perhaps he was justified, if this was the sort of madness it led to.

Following a battle with greenish humanoid aliens, the Avengers cornered him in Stark Tower, and the Hulk made short work of him, by flinging him into the floor, and then added insult to injury by saying, "Puny god," (a direct response to Loki's calling that he was "a _god_, you pathetic creature," which made his actions perhaps more forgivable, if no less painful).

Staring down the weapons of all the Avengers, wondering with sudden clarity of mind just _what the hell_ he'd been doing attacking New York in the first place, Loki surrendered, for real, this time, and the dream ended with him being returned to Asgard alongside the relic known as the _Tesseract_.

The dreams ended there. Not just for that night, either. They were no longer to reliably haunt his nocturnal hours ever again. Occasionally, one would assail him_—_not always at night, either—in the future, but it was usually prompted by something. Triggered. When he slept the next night, it was to the old, boring dreams, of singing rhododendrons, cats who turned into women, and Dudley playing rugby with an ostrich and a llama among his teammates.

Harry didn't know whether or not to be disappointed. What happened next? What _had_ become of Loki?

_They're just __**dreams**_, he told himself firmly. _They aren't __**real**__, so it doesn't __**matter**_. But somehow, he had a hard time believing that, himself.

And he missed them, whether he admitted it or not. Thor, and Frigga, and Odin. Even the Warriors Three, and the surprisingly reasonable Lady Sif. He _wanted_ them to be real. It was only the narrative he wished to change. His _role_. But why dwell on what couldn't be helped? He had a life to be living, after all.

Even if he seemed to be spending most of it in his cupboard, of late.

Whenever he went to the library, his inevitable sentence was over a week without food, spent in his cupboard, followed by a further week of close supervision, spent performing his chores. The incident with the snake in the zoo earned him his longest ever punishment of a _month_ in his cupboard, with the usual ten days without food, followed by a more severe ten days on short commons.

Harry wondered how they could possibly get away with this. But the librarians, at least, believed him when he finally confessed the truth. They promised him that something would be done… but nothing was. And when he returned to the library in mid-May, neither of the librarians were to be found. When he asked, he was told that they had decided—each independently—to move for better prospects to London. Both of them. Independently. After promising to help him.

It sounded like something from a sci-fi movie. One of the ones he'd once managed to sneak in watching whilst the Dursleys were out. He could count the number of movies_—_not educational videos, but _movies_—he had seen on his fingers, with digits to spare. But this sure sounded like the plot of one of them. He wondered if they'd been "disposed of", and shuddered, reconsidering all the others he had asked for help, and what might truly have become of them.

Perhaps it was better if he fended for himself. He didn't want anyone to _die_, trying to help him. The Dursleys had yet to push him to starvation, after all. He'd emerged from his cupboard, shaking and weak, but _alive_.

Perhaps the same could not be said of those to whom he'd turned for help.

His penultimate visit to the library (there was no point in going, he decided, with the helpful, knowledgeable librarians gone), was swift followed by Dudley's nightmare birthday. He'd only just begun to recover his strength, when a talking snake, and a disappearing glass barricade, sentenced him to an even _greater_ stay in his cupboard.

He was surprised at his own stamina, that he could still stumble out of his cupboard, frail and drawn. It felt almost…familiar.

As if he'd been through something even more severe…or Loki had.

He pushed that explanation aside with the greatest violence his preoccupied mind could muster.

But it was June, now, and the summer holidays had begun, and he had something to look forward to: the knowledge that, come September, he would be going to the local public school, Stonewall High, and would at last be free of Dudley, who had been accepted to Uncle Vernon's old school of Smeltings.

The outfit was ludicrous, but the walking stick was an additional weapon to Dudley's arsenal, one with greater reach than what Dudley usually used. He spent the next few days with no option but to do his best dodging Dudley's cane. On the one hand, he had Loki's training as guidance. On the other, the world was still spinning and fading in and out due to his recent stint in the cupboard. His mind was more than a bit foggy.

But he persevered, and just kept working, wondering as he did, quite pointlessly, how the Dursleys had managed to elude notice when he'd missed half of the second semester, including the last month of term. It seemed impossible. But it had happened, which meant that it wasn't.

His mind was still muddled when the letter addressed to him came, but he had the presence of mind, despite it all, to slip it under his baggy hand-me-down shirt, belting Dudley's old jeans carefully over the envelope, and hoping that it wasn't anything too sensitive to creasing or breakage. It was just an envelope, a letter, but it was a letter to _him_, and he had no experience with the post. The letter was special, memorable…almost sacred.

He hid it successfully from the Dursleys, and then waited for them to go to bed, and to be locked into the cupboard for the night, before opening the letter, and reading by the light of his magic.

A school for "Witchcraft and Wizardry", called "Hogwarts"? Who names a school that? But the magic part of it…well, he knew that magic had to be real. Did Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon know? Had they known all along? Had _that_ been what they'd been trying to stamp out of him?

A chance to go to a boarding school, far removed from the Dursleys…it was a dream come true. And yet….

_We await your owl by no later than July Thirty-First_. That was what the letter read. He had to reply, clearly, by no later than (midnight of?) his birthday. But…there was one problem. He had no means of contacting them. Either "owl" referred to the bird—likely, as it was lowercase—or it was a special, wizard way of contacting people. Either way, he had no chance of obeying the instructions.

He set the letter aside, hidden under his threadbare mattress, and pondered what to do. He didn't even sleep, that night.

Letters continued to come, when he failed to respond. They came one at a time, at first, and then in an ever-mounting torrent, as if the floodgates of the post had burst open, and a tsunami of letters poured out, all of them identical, with that familiar green ink, and the disturbingly specific address.

The Dursleys tried everything they could think of to stop the letters—boarding up all entrances and exits (which was ridiculous; eventually they'd have to open them up, for Vernon to go to work, or to get groceries, or else they'd starve to death); giving him Dudley's second bedroom; and then leaving the house, driving across the country until they reached the sea, and rowing out to a small, dilapidated shack on the middle of a desolate island.

That was where Hagrid found him, of course, and then everything was alright. Finally, he had answers to some of his questions. And he at last knew what his mother had meant by "James's _world_". The wizarding world. Hogwarts. Where, perhaps, his true destiny awaited, and his life would _truly_ begin.


	8. New World

**Author's note (concerning Harry and the Dursleys):** removed due to obsolescence (amongst other factors).

* * *

**Chapter Eight: New World**

Diagon Alley was a breathtaking sight, as if it existed in its own little world. It couldn't hold a candle to Asgard, of course, but then, few things could. Nevertheless, Harry spun in endless circles, trying to take in everything at once. Hagrid was unimpressed, and didn't seem to realise that, for Harry, everything was new, and fascinating—even the things that Hagrid himself took for granted.

Sure, Harry could have done without the intense scrutiny he faced upon his arrival at the Leaky Cauldron (was this how it felt to be Thor, constantly watched and judged by his reputation, by people he'd never met? How could he _stand_ it?). Professor Quirrell was annoying, with his stutter, and his squeaks of fright, but he wasn't that much more annoying than the other patrons of the pub known as the Leaky Cauldron, which was a pity.

At the time, however, Harry had still been going over, _digesting_, his recently acquired information. His parents' names _had_ been James and Lily Potter. They had been killed by an evil wizard known as "Lord Voldemort", although everyone called him "You-Know-Who". Harry knew the power of the name, and decided to see how other people reacted to the name before deciding whether or not to use it, himself. On the one hand, Loki was a _god_, and there was, perhaps, a residue of pride remaining (why should a _god_ fear any mere mortal?). On the other…well, names had great power, and it was best to use them judiciously.

It was unsurprising to learn that the Dursleys had lied about the nature of his parents' lives and deaths (they'd been part of some sort of group dedicated to fighting Voldemort, or something; Hagrid had been sparing on the details, as if he'd been ordered "not to overwhelm the poor boy with too much information"). Aunt Petunia's rant had been slightly _more_ surprising…she'd sounded…well…_jealous_, of her sister, and he wondered if that weren't the real reason for her ire and hatred. He remembered Loki's extraordinary bitterness, exacerbated to epic proportions over the span of centuries. He could understand jealousy, he thought, but this… was that what had become of Thor and Loki?

Why did his thoughts keep coming back to that?

Well, what else had he learnt? He'd learnt more of Hogwarts—Hagrid was the Keeper of the Keys—and about Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the time, evidently, and about Diagon Alley, and the Ministry of Magic.

Here he was, in Diagon Alley. He kept telling himself that, to confirm its reality, after the Dursleys had insisted that he wouldn't go to Hogwarts, that they wouldn't pay.

He wondered how they'd react if they knew the small fortune lying under London, with his name attached. Would the thought of its goblin guardians deter them? It was a _lot_ of money.

Hagrid turned aside, and pulled him out of the way of the entrance to a shop. Saying something about not feeling his best after the ride in the Gringotts cart (and who could blame him?), he gently ushered Harry inside, and went off to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint (presumably), leaving Harry alone in this new world, for the first time.

Well, he was always going to be alone, sooner or later.

"Hello, dear. Hogwarts, too?" asked a matronly-looking middle-aged woman. He nodded, and she cheerfully ploughed on. "I've another being fitted up right now. You just sit right there, and we'll have you sorted out in a moment."

Harry sat in the seat requested, and tried not to make eye-contact with the blond boy seated next to him. He wanted to _think_, damn it.

"Hello," said the boy, with a slow, leisurely drawl. "Are you going to Hogwarts, too?" Harry, swallowing a sigh, nodded. It was the polite thing to do. The boy didn't even look at him, continuing with what almost sounded a rehearsed speech. "My mother's up the street looking at wands, and my father's looking at broomsticks. I don't know why there's that rule saying that first years aren't allowed to have them. It think I'll bully Father into buying me one, and smuggle it in, somehow."

What was the deal with broomsticks? Why would anyone go so far as to smuggle one in? Hogwarts was a castle, evidently; was it _that_ untidy?

Hagrid appeared at the window, holding up two ice creams to show that he couldn't enter.

"Who's _that_?" asked the boy. Harry could hear the disgust in his voice, and frowned.

"That's Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, shrugging. "Father told me about him. He's a servant, isn't he?"

"He's the _groundskeeper_, and the Keeper of the Keys," Harry repeated, disliking the boy ever more with each passing second. The boy might not have been listening—he gave that sort of distracted nod.

"Exactly. Father says he's a sort of _savage_—lives out in a hut by the forest, and now and again he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his hut."

Harry thought of Dudley's new pigtail, and straightened his back, rounding on the boy in his best imperious manner.

"I think he's _brilliant_," he said.

"_Do_ you?" the boy sneered, "Well, why is he with you? Where are _your_ parents?" he asked, finally glancing at Harry, as if just noticing that Harry was alone. Harry braced himself, gathering the regal demeanour he'd learnt from Loki, who'd learnt from…who knew whom, actually.

"They're dead," he said, flatly.

"Oh, sorry," said the blond boy, airily. He clearly didn't mean it, and was almost jumping to move the conversation further in the direction of his own choosing.

For a moment, Harry was tempted to compare the boy to Thor, but then remembered that, even in Thor's worst moments before his trial by ordeal, he'd still had compassion, and respect for those who had already gone to the other side. No, the boy might have had Thor's erstwhile arrogance, and perhaps other faults—he might have been Thor, stripped of all virtue—but even _that_ comparison didn't seem fair to Thor.

Right now, he didn't seem to be aware of what he was saying, as if the words were automatic feedback, as when you were having a lousy day, and someone asked you how you were, you knew to say, "fine". The words held no _meaning_. He paid much more heed to the rest of his sentence. "But they _were_ our kind, weren't they?"

"They were human, if that's what you mean," said Harry, in his iciest voice. _Forgive me, Mother_, he couldn't help thinking. He knew almost nothing about his parents, and his beliefs about himself were perched on the balance beam of a scale. He couldn't decide whether he believed that his mother was human, or a bona fide goddess.

But the boy didn't need to know that.

"Oh," he said, his lip curling in unreserved disgust. "You're a _mudblood_. Do me a favour, and sit there and shut up. Don't talk to me anymore."

Harry thought about what he'd heard, about the fame of the name "Potter", about people who would try to use him if they knew who he was, and smiled, internally.

"Is that a fact? You can speak to me, but I can't talk to you?" He affected not to be as angry about the boy's comments as he was.

"I wouldn't knowingly sully the air I breathe with the fumes emitted from a _mudblood_. You have no fears of me speaking to you again."

"Is that a promise?" asked Harry, lightly. He wanted to press the boy into giving his word. Then, perhaps, he wouldn't have to deal with this poisonous fellow ever again. If he were lucky.

"If it will silence you, I promise that we shall never trade words again."

Harry, to show his agreement, nodded, and smiled.

"That's _you_ done, my dear," said the middle-aged lady, and the blond boy slipped off his stool, nose already tilted towards the ceiling as he strutted from the store.

_Worse than __**Stark**_, Harry found himself thinking, and shook his head. _You've never met Tony Stark_, he reminded himself.

Malkin was competent, deft with a needle, and knew exactly how to pin his robes so that the pins didn't prick him. Magic made short work of the process of sewing up his robes, and they were ready in a trice. He handed over the correct amount of galleons and sickles, and took his leave, to where Hagrid was already waiting outside.

They walked in silence for a brief span of time, before Harry couldn't take it any longer.

"Hagrid, what's 'mudblood' mean?" he asked.

Hagrid fumbled his own ice cream, but caught it before it could slop to the cobblestone below.

"Where—where the ruddy hell did you hear that?" Hagrid demanded, sounding…affronted.

Had he said something wrong? Well, the term didn't _sound_ very nice, but this was a new world; who knew? He gave a helpless little shrug, and Hagrid visibly calmed himself down.

"The boy in the shop—with the blond hair. When he asked me if my parents were 'our kind' as he put it, I said that they were human, and that's when he said I must be a 'mudblood'."

The brief twinkle in Hagrid's eyes at Harry's sarcastic response to the boy's insensitive question (not that Hagrid knew that the boy knew that it was insensitive) quickly darkened. Strawberry ice cream trickled down Hagrid's sleeve, oozing out of the new hole in the waffle cone. Harry didn't point it out.

"Ah, well, Harry, you've got bigots in any world, I reckon," Hagrid said. Harry could, sort of, vouch for this. Asgard, even, had its prejudices, but he kept quiet, sensing that Hagrid would not want to be interrupted, when discussing an evidently sensitive subject. "It's a stupid term—means your blood is 'dirty', see. There's wizarding families can date their family back hundreds of years—they call themselves the purebloods, and then there's the half-bloods, who have a pureblood parent, and a muggleborn one. Muggleborn means that your parents are muggles—no magical background—" he reminded Harry, who nodded his understanding. "But your Mum's a muggleborn, and your Dad's from an old pureblood family—you'd be a half-blood, at the very least. Not that it matters. Stupid ideology. Don't pay him any mind."

Harry nodded his understanding, and cast around for something else to speak on, for a distraction. "Hagrid, what's quidditch?" he asked, his eyes alighting upon the sign that read: Quality Quidditch Supplies, hanging over a window display filled with brooms.

"I forgot how much you don't know…fancy not knowing about quidditch!"

Harry sighed. He felt stupid enough not knowing why brooms were apparently so important in the Wizarding World.

"Well, it's a wizarding sport, played on brooms," Hagrid continued at last. He paused. "Sort of hard to explain the rules—"

"Please try," Harry said, cutting off what he knew would be a request that Harry look elsewhere for information, or a claim of excess ignorance. "You've lived in this world all your life, right—?" This was a guess based solely on Hagrid's towering form. It might have been a rare muggle genetic; more likely, it was some accidental charm, or _magical_ genetics—if there even _were_ such.

"Well, er—" they were stopped in the middle of the street, and Harry tugged on Hagrid's sleeve, leading him toward the shop.

"Just the basics, Hagrid. Just enough so that I can learn more on my own, or know enough not to seem a complete _dunce_. For instance: is it a team sport, or solo?"

"It's a team sport," Hagrid said, at last. "Played on broomsticks. There's three kinds of balls. There's the golden snitch, a small ball that the seeker has to catch—that earns your team a hundred and fifty points—" Harry's eyebrows shot up, although he remained silent. That sounded a lot. "—And there's two black balls known as bludgers—they try to knock players off their brooms. But the beaters are there for that—there's two beaters on the team. It's _their_ job to hit the bludgers at the opposing team, see. And then there's the red quaffle. The chasers, there's three of them, try and score through the opponents' hoops, but the keeper—that's the last position—guards the hoop to prevent that."

"Then there's…how many players?" Harry asked. He was already finding it difficult to keep track of. It sounded rather violent, too—right up Thor's alley, not his.

"There's seven players. The seekers, whose job it is to catch the snitch. Keepers, who block their team's goalpost. Two beaters, to send the bludgers at the opposing team's players. Three chasers, to score points with the quaffle, if they can get it through the goal. It's not as dangerous as it sounds," he added, as if reading Harry's mind.

"Wow," he said, at last. "It sounds…interesting. You explained it well, Hagrid. I can almost see it."

Hagrid blushed at the praise. Harry had already noticed that, for all his size and intimidating appearance, Hagrid was a big softie, with a gentle heart.

They continued on to _Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands Since 312 BC_, in amiable silence. Harry left with even _more_ questions than those with which he'd entered.

"If my mother's wand was suited to charms, and my father's to transfiguration," he'd asked Ollivander, "then what is _my_ wand suited to?"

Ollivander paused, from where he was carefully nestling the new-bought wand in its cushion. "Ah, Mr. Potter, each individual is unique, even as his or her wand is. I would not want to lead you—"

"Please, sir. Just tell me the significance."

Ollivander stared at him with those disturbing, milk-white eyes, and snapped the wand into place, pushing the latches over it to secure it, that it not jostle against its cushion, or come loose and rattle about the box(or worse, if the box should open, fall _out_ and be lost).

"I am a master of wand lore, and of wand making," said Ollivander. "I might tell you the usual strengths of any of your wand's component parts, but each wand is an experiment, one that I am sure will somewhere, someday, be suited to a certain witch or wizard—although they might not be born for many years, yet. Often, these combined attributes lend themselves to certain specialties.

"But I'm afraid, concerning your own wand, there is little to say. The holly is a sacred tree—it is right there, the very name of the wood: _halig_, "holy". It has long-standing traditions in pagan Britain, connections with ancient Celtic gods.

"The phoenix is a symbol of rebirth, and of immortality. The phoenix, the legendary bird, the _true_ phoenix, lives for five hundred years, according to legend, before building itself a nest of its own feathers, and setting itself ablaze, to be reborn from its own ashes, the same bird, but different, too. Beneath the surface, it therefore has connections to transformation, resurrection, and renewal. It is the bird of the second chance, and redemption.

"The length of a wand measures the capacity of its user—how great his or her magical reserves are. Usually, the longer the wand, the greater the magical reserves of its wielder. Your wand shows that you have great capacity in magic. But it is hard to see the conclusion, what happens when these three factors are put together. Even for me. Perhaps this wand chose you only because it knew that its brother had marked you already."

And he handed over the box, before Harry could question him further.

Harry's heart was still pounding, processing what he'd heard. Rebirth and immortality? Connections to old gods? Even in his waking life, his memories of his dreams could not leave him be, could they? Suppose he _was_ a pagan god—would that explain the wood of his wand? Would it be sufficient to explain even the phoenix feather? But…rebirth, immortality, renewal…redemption…?

He thought of Loki, attacking New York. He thought of falling from the Rainbow Bridge, only to emerge, years later, transformed and twisted into something even Harry barely recognised. Surely, if any needed a second chance, it was he….

Redemption? Rebirth? What if…?

He at last shoved the thoughts aside as they entered Flourish and Blotts. Nothing memorable happened within; he found the course books, and a few other volumes, paid for them, and left. Hagrid had disappeared, returning with a snowy owl that he offered to Harry as Harry's first ever birthday present (the gifts of the Dursleys did _not_ count). The owl, who would be named Hedwig, which name Harry had found in his History of Magic textbook, straightaway recognised her new master, greeting him with quiet dignity that Harry appreciated.

Then, back they went through the barrier wall, back into the Leaky Cauldron (this time not causing a scene), back to the train station, where Hagrid let Harry choose what he wanted to eat for lunch, which opportunity he'd never before had.

It was a memorable birthday for many, many different reasons, and it was almost completely Dursley-free. He felt _free_. It was wonderful.

His birthday was also the last day of the month. He knew that, of course—he couldn't help but know it—but he hadn't thought about it much that day. He'd thought of his mother, now and then, but for the most part, he'd just relished the experience of going where he wanted, and doing as he pleased, with no workload of chores, no Dursleys glaring at him, yelling at him, calling him _freak_ or _loser_, or mocking his parents.

Not until he stood before the familiar cabin door, with the moon beginning to rise overhead, did he think of his mother, waiting for him, and the secret world she'd promised him he must wait to hear of before she would answer certain questions. He decided that she was right. He probably _wouldn't_ have been able to feign the stricken-by-Mjölnir shock that had flooded him when he'd learnt that he was a _wizard_.

He knocked on the door, for once. It opened, as if acknowledging his true purpose, and let him in.


	9. Those Who Break Promises

**Chapter Nine: Those Who Break Promises**

The rest of the summer passed by in a rush. He had very little sleep, and little time besides to dwell on the mundane dreams that now filled his few hours of rest. He set to reading the textbooks with good will, picking out a name for Hedwig, comparing the building blocks of Transfiguration and Charms with what he'd learnt in his dreams, rearranging his mind to better encompass new knowledge. He would never remember this all—but then, it _was_ the courseload of a year. Perhaps he'd feel different, come end of term.

At least the Dursleys, intimidated by Hagrid's magic and presence, left him alone. It was a bit dehumanising, to be utterly ignored (wasn't that a method of punishment that _killed_ people, in certain cultures?), but he and the Dursleys had never been going to get on. He relished in the continued freedom.

At the end of August, his mother gave him a brief review of the coursework, reassured him that he wasn't expected to know _everything_, and they spent the rest of the time reminiscing (or rather, his mother was reminiscing about how Harry had been as a baby).

Then came September First, and the Dursleys dropping him off, stranding him at the train station, driving away with Dudley giving a victorious smirk.

At least his mother had thought to tell him the location of the platform. This was yet another check as to how much of these dreams were _real_.

He approached the blank brick wall between platforms nine and ten, pushing his trolley at a sedate pace. No one seemed to notice his stroll towards a blank wall.

No one noticed him stroll _through_ the blank wall. Nor did they notice him pause to gawk at the bright, blood-red train stationed there. All around him, people were too busy, saying their farewells, or catching up with friends they hadn't seen since the last term had ended. No one noticed the scrawny, black-haired boy in his hand-me-downs, blocking the entryway.

He moved aside, to approach the train, uncertain as to what to do. He supposed he might as well board, and find a place to sit.

He decided that the Dursleys had done him a favour, after a fashion, with their endless lists of chores—he could lift a surprising weight for a scrawny eleven-year-old. He carried his trunk filled with his school books and the like onto the train, leaving Hedwig be for the moment, opening up a compartment door, near the back, and setting down his trunk before returning for his owl.

"—and I'd better not hear that you've caused any more trouble—" A woman's voice, a grown woman, reached his ears, used to listening for the smallest noises. She was speaking quite loudly, in the manner usual when you are in a public place, and furthermore in a hurry, and beside that quite exasperated.

"Us? Make trouble?" asked a much younger-sounding, male voice.

"Oh, Mum, can't I go? Please?" demanded the high-pitched whine of a little girl. He couldn't help peering over, to whom was speaking, as, judging by the little girl's assumption that she would go to Hogwarts, this might be a wizarding _family_.

His eyebrows rose as he counted the number of redheads hastening for the train. There was a plump, red-headed woman, her hair much brighter than his Mum's, and her daughter, who was older than he would have guessed from voice alone. Then, there was a tall, gangling boy, fidgeting off to the side, and two boys who looked older, and stouter, identical, or close enough from this distance. And then, the last, taller even than the gangling boy, with horn-rimmed spectacles, and an air of pompous gravitas.

"Well, Mother, I really must be off," the boy said, and sure enough, he sounded incredibly full of himself. "We prefects have a compartment all to ourselves."

"Oh, are you a _prefect_, Percy?" asked one of the twins (and they _had_ to be twins, didn't they?).

"You should have said something—we had no idea," said the other, nodding.

"Hang on," continued the first. "I think I just remembered him saying something about it. Once—"

"—or twice—" the other continued, nodding.

"—a minute—"

"—all summer—"

Percy the prefect turned a startling crimson, and whirled back around to face the two. Harry tried his best to swallow a grin. Percy seemed rather…arrogant. Insufferable. All that about rules, rules, rules. But the twins might be fun….

"Oh, hush, you two. I'm very proud of your accomplishment, Percy," said the woman, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Harry hurried into his compartment to avoid Percy, and sat down, gazing out the window, scanning the crowd for the red-headed family, a bit disappointed to see that, at some point, the others had wandered off, leaving the little girl (not so little, though), and her mother, standing alone. Where had the other three gone?

The door to his compartment slid open. One of the very boys he had just been pondering stood there, in the entrance.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry raised an eyebrow, considering. The boy did have a very interesting family, and he was curious about the twins in particular, but….

"Perhaps I would say 'yes' to your request," said Harry, after a moment of the boy standing there, awkward, clutching a heavy-looking, battered trunk that stuck out as a sore thumb amongst the other, brand-new ones that filled the train station. From closer-to, Harry could see that the boy looked rather haggard, ragged, worn down, overall. He knew hand-me-downs, and these were not even high-quality hand-me-downs. It made him slightly…_grateful_ to the Dursleys. _That_ was pathetic.

"But," Harry continued, before the boy could move, "_only_ if you tell me the _real_ reason you're here, of all places."

He had the sense that he could tell when people were lying. Could sense something even beneath the obvious tells. He was almost positive the boy had been lying about checking the other compartments. And he'd caught the Dursleys in innumerable lies, over the years, and even his mother—

He wasn't sure about half-truths, though, so he silently hoped that the boy would just be direct, so that Harry could tell, yes or no.

"I…well, it's not that I meant to be misleading, exactly—"

False. "It's just…it's hard to explain. It sounds a bit incredible—I thought you might not believe me."

True. True. Wasn't that trunk heavy? Harry's was—even for him.

"Try me," Harry said, leaning forwards. The boy swallowed, and turned away.

"I—my mother taught me a spell. She said I could use it to…to find someone who was or would be someone I cared about, as long as I kept my focus. I've used it before, so I know it works. I thought I'd try it, here. I followed it, and…and here you were. It must have meant you."

True. All of it true, although what any of that signified, Harry had no idea.

There was a long moment when neither moved. Then, Harry frowned, and said,

"Well, aren't you going to join me? That trunk looks a bit heavy to be carrying around."

The other boy shrugged. "It's not that bad. I must say, I _am_ glad that you're not a Malfoy. I mean, I would have found a way to make peace with it, if you had been, but…I am still relieved."

What was a "Malfoy"? Oh, well.

"The Malfoys are an old, rich, pureblood family. Our families are long-standing enemies," he explained, with a smile.

"Your families?" asked Harry, tilting his head. The boy blinked, as if caught off-guard.

"Oh…er, I didn't introduce myself, did I?" asked the boy. He shook his head. "A good way to make a bad first impression. I was just—"

"I distracted you. I understand." Harry gave a nod of encouragement.

"I'm Ron. Ronald Weasley, that is." He switched the trunk to his left hand, to hold out his right.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter," Harry said, with a smile, taking the hand just as the boy—Ron—dropped his trunk onto his own foot, as his jaw also dropped. He winced, but made no further move, except to bend down to pick up his trunk again.

"You are…you're _Harry Potter_? _The_ Harry Potter?" asked Ron, his interest flaring bright. Harry nodded, and shrugged, with a vague smile that he hoped came across as slightly sheepish rather than aloof and apathetic. "Of course. Of _course_. Somehow, it seems to fit. Perhaps the concept of the 'Hands of Fate' _is_ real, then."

Harry now had no idea what Ron was talking about. He frowned. Shrugged.

"Are you quite alright? Do you need any help with your trunk?" he asked. Ron grimaced, but just folded his arms, glanced up at the overhead rack as if judging something, and then tried to lift the trunk overhead. They discovered that Harry's trunk was blocking the overhead rack, a bit, and he had to move it aside, but together, they managed to situate Ron's trunk next to Harry's.

The train was already moving when they sat back down, Ron seeming as if there were something he desperately needed to say. Every attempt Harry made to prompt him as to what this was, however, failed. Harry gave it up for a lost cause.

Ron at length pulled out a sandwich, which he eyed with such evident disgust that Harry had to try hard not to laugh.

"Mum always forgets I hate corned beef," Ron said, as explanation. "She hasn't got much time—you know, with the six of us…."

"_Six_?" repeated Harry, incredulous. Percy, the twins, the girl, Ron, and his mother…well, that did seem to add up to six, but he hadn't consciously recognised that fact, before. "She must be _really_ busy, indeed. Still…I wish _I_ had three wizarding brothers—"

"Five," Ron corrected, his expression downcast. "Bill and Charlie already graduated from Hogwarts. Bill was Head Boy, and Charlie was Captain of Quidditch. Now, Percy's a prefect, and everyone agrees that the twins are very funny and smart, for all that they don't care about grades. Everyone expects me to do as well as they, but if I do, it's no big deal, because it's expected.

"But I suppose I got a bit off-topic. Well, it's hard for us to get going anywhere, even when it's scheduled well in advance, thus. It's all a bit…complicated. Everything has to be planned just so, and we're always running late. You never get anything new, either. I've Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

He pulled a boring-looking, if a bit beaten-up, old rat from his breast pocket. The most remarkable thing about it was a missing toe. Harry cocked his head at it, and then dismissed it as unimportant. Still…sure Hogwarts had said rats were allowed as pets, but that seemed highly unsanitary. Was that just a muggle thing?

"This…is Scabbers," said Ron. "He might die, and I'm not sure I'd know for a while. All he seems to do anymore is sleep, which is alright, I guess—not very much fun, though. And it makes it hard to tell if he's still…_well_, or not. It was nice of Percy to give me his old rat, when he made prefect and Mum bought him an owl as a reward. I mean—I know she'd love to be able to provide us with better things, and I'm not complaining—"

"I get it," said Harry, with a small smile. This would be his first friend…well…ever. Loki hadn't made any friends, or hadn't seemed to, and Dudley had ensured that no one spoke to Harry in a friendly way twice. He had no background to go on, and he wanted this to go well. Still, people tended to get on better if they had things in common, right? So, he steeled himself and continued.

"My situation is a bit like yours, believe it or not. I mean, the Dursleys—that's my aunt, uncle, and cousin—are well-off enough, but they've never liked me, I guess because I had magic, so all I've had are Dudley's cast-offs to wear—that's why my clothes are so big." He pulled at the loose folds of his voluminous shirt for emphasis, as a frown appeared between Ron's eyebrows.

"I mean, they _could_ have got me whatever I wanted, I think; they did for Dudley, but I can appreciate never getting anything new. Before I got my Hogwarts letter, they never even spoke of my mum or dad, and when Aunt Petunia finally broke that silence, it was to rant about how unnatural my mother was, and how she 'always knew she'd meet a sticky end'."

"Harry," Ron interrupted, his voice dropping an _octave_ with sudden solemnity. "That is not the same thing at all. You cannot believe that it's the same. You deserve better, and they could have given you better, but chose not to."

Harry slumped. He'd ruined the thing, after all. Who knew burgeoning friendships were so fragile?

"I'm sorry," he said, because sometimes, just occasionally, the Dursleys went easier on him when he said the words—even back when he'd had no idea what he'd been apologising _for_. "I didn't mean—I didn't think—I'm sure your family are great people. I just—"

"Harry," said Ron, cutting through Harry's sudden insecure fumbling. "I am not faulting _you_. I just wish…there were something I could do about these _Dursleys_, with whom you live. If my mother knew—"

He paused, and Harry, glancing up with not-quite-hope, could see the metaphorical lightbulb clicking on.

"Mum would have a fit if she knew how you'd been treated. Perhaps _I_ shall speak out of turn, saying this, but—let _us_ be your family, Harry. We might not be allowed to take you in—I don't know how such rules work, or what obstacles might stand in our way of adopting you, and I know better than to make such a promise, and get your hopes up, perhaps, before I have any knowledge of whether or not I could keep it, but—"

"You've just _met_ me," Harry protested.

"Mother's spell guided me to _you_," said Ron. "I am a coward if I need further proof of your worth before offering you help."

Harry swallowed, chest tight with some _new_ emotion. No one but his Mum had ever shown him such kindness before, not even the librarians. He had no notion of how he ought to react, how usual this sort of thing was. He had no prior knowledge to fall back on. He thought of Loki, and Thor, the bond that had connected them, before Loki had whittled it down to nothing, and broken it. But even _that_ gave him no guidance.

"I…" he said. He hesitated, for once at a loss for words. That in itself was a strange experience for him. What did you say to such an offer? "…Thank you."

He had the sense that Ron hadn't had a clue what sort of answer would have been acceptable, either. He just nodded his acceptance—or something—and the tension that had permeated the compartment dissipated.

They talked for a while, uninterrupted, about school, and about quidditch (Ron was a fan of a team called the "Chudley Cannons"). The topic of discussion turned to magic, and Harry's insecurity concerning his limited knowledge of the wizarding world. Ron told him about a spell that Fred and George had tried to teach him, to "make Scabbers more interesting". He'd pulled out the (sleeping) rat, and laid him down flat on his pants leg, when the compartment door slid open.

"I'm sorry to bother you," said a bushy-haired girl in an almost businesslike voice. She carried herself with a poise that verged on arrogance, with a superior tilt of the head that made Harry think of the two princes on their worst days. But he tried not to judge her too hastily. "Have either of you seen a toad? Neville's lost one." She jerked her head in the direction of a rather forgettable-looking chubby boy, whom Harry hadn't noticed standing behind her.

"No, sorry," said Harry. Ron shook his head, where he was sitting, calling the girl's attention to him.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see, then," she commanded. Harry felt a flare of irritation at her bossy attitude.

"Actually," he said, in a calm voice. "He wasn't doing magic, at all. We'd been talking about it, of course, and he'd told me that his wand is a hand-me-down of his brother's. I'm rather curious about wand-making and wand lore. I asked Ollivander about it, but he wouldn't answer my questions well enough. What sort of core is it, Ron?"

Ron blinked, looking a bit perplexed, but set the rat back in his pocket. "Twelve inches. Unicorn hair," he supplied. "I don't know the wood, though—"

"Oh!" the girl cried, taking the bait. Harry inwardly relaxed. He wasn't sure that they were allowed to use magic on the train, and there was enough Percyness about her to make him wonder if she wouldn't have tattled on Ron.

"Mine's vine and dragon heartstring," she said, beaming. "Ollivander said it shows that I'm a quick learner, ready and adaptable for any subject."

"Phoenix feather and holly," said Harry, holding up his own wand. "Twelve inches."

"I don't know about mine," said the last member of their temporary group. His voice was slow and hesitant. "It was my dad's."

"Really? Neither of you chose your own wand—er, I mean, neither of you bought your own wand? But Ollivander said—"

"—You'll never get as good of results with another wizard's wand," Harry finished. The girl nodded.

"I suppose it will be a bit of a setback for you…but I've tried lots of magic, and it's all worked fine for me. Maybe I could help—"

"Not much you can do about that fact, is there?" asked Harry, sighing. He did wish there were _something_ he could do.

"Oh! I almost forgot to introduce myself. I'm Hermione Granger, and this is Neville Longbottom!"

"Ronald Weasley," said Ron, nodding at them. "It's nice to meet you."

Harry shrugged, internally bracing himself. "Harry Potter."

The girl's face lit up, and she clapped her hands.

"Are you really? I know all about you! I read up on the subject thoroughly, and you're in _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, and _Noteworthy Wizards and Witches of the Twentieth Century_—"

"Am I?" asked Harry. His head was spinning from both the revelation, and Hermione's sudden, breakneck pace.

"And that qualifies as 'knowing all about' him?" Ron quietly interrupted. "What did they have to say of the Dursleys?"

Hermione paused, crossed her arms, and frowned.

"The what now?" she asked.

"The Dursleys," Ron repeated.

"I—" she faltered. "I've never heard of them—"

"My mother's sister and her family," Harry supplied, finally catching on to Ron's point. "I'm sure they must have had much to say about the family I spent the last ten years with."

Hermione hesitated—and then shook her head.

"Then perhaps," Ron said, in an almost soothing voice. "You do not know as much as you believe. Perhaps you would learn more about Harry by spending five minutes with him, than from your books. Experience, I have found, is a great teacher."

Hermione glanced at Neville, glanced back at Ron, and then finally at Harry. She bit her lip, and then nodded. "Yes. Yes, perhaps you're right. I'm sorry, Harry," she said.

Whoa. Well…maybe she wasn't _all_ bad.

"It's fine. I suppose you just got a bit overexcited."

"I—Well, I think we'd better keep looking for your toad, Neville. It was…nice to meet you both," said Hermione, mustering a tiny smile. The arrogance had gone—for now.

They slid the compartment door quietly shut behind them, and Harry turned to Ron.

"That was amazing!" he said. "You knew just what to say to make her think about all of this!"

"Well, know-it-alls are know-it-alls, I suppose. I live with Percy," said Ron. It did not seem a very satisfactory answer, but it seemed churlish and ungrateful to demand a better one, after Ron had just saved him from the long-winded Hermione.

Instead, he nodded, and their conversation resumed.

Several hours, and a visit from a lady pushing a trolley loaded with sweets later, the compartment door again opened.

But it wasn't Neville or Hermione, this time. It was the blond boy from Madame Malkin's, this time flanked by two heavyset, burly eleven-year-olds (to the extent that eleven-year-olds qualified as such). They both looked even more like gorillas than Dudley (no mean feat), and as if they somehow managed to also have fewer brains (even more impressive). The boy eyed Harry with far greater interest than he had back in the shop.

"They've been saying all up and down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment." False. More like, he'd opened the door, looked for likely candidates, and was taking a chance, or somehow had some other means of identifying him. "So, it's you, is it?"

He was staring right at Harry. Harry, meanwhile, was thinking of the promise made in Madame Malkin's. He gave a terse nod.

"I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. And these are Crabbe and Goyle." He jerked his head at each of them in turn. "And there's no need for you to introduce _yourself_," he added, in a vitriol-laden voice of pure sardonicism. "Father told me how to spot a Weasley—red-hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

A faint, undeniably familiar aroma accosted Harry. It took him a second to identify it. Ron had sprung to his feet the moment he'd caught sight of the boy (Malfoy), which made sense. So this was a Malfoy—the infamous inveterate foes of the Weasley clan. Harry sprang to his feet, now, too, to hiss in Ron's ear.

"Ron—Ron, your pants are on fire!"

Ron started, and blinked, and removed his clenched fists from his smoking pockets, beating the fire out.

Malfoy laughed, and Harry glared at him.

"Yes, you'd better be more careful," Malfoy snickered. "Your family can hardly afford to go replacing even _muggle_ clothes, now can they? Anyway," said Malfoy, the mirth vanishing from his voice as he turned to Harry. "You don't want to go making friends with the _wrong_ sort. I can help you, there." He held out his hand, and Harry raised an eyebrow, glaring down at it. This had the smack of making a "deal with the devil" to it. Something with which he had the sense that he ought to be more familiar.

_I'm not making __**that**__ mistake twice_, he found himself thinking.

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," he said, coolly. "And I have no great faith in the trustworthiness of those who so readily break their promises. Breaking it I might understand, were we, for instance, forced into a group project by our professors, but here—of your own volition? You were content enough to leave me be when I was just a _mudblood_," He spat the term with the venom it deserved. He could almost _feel_ Ron tense, beside him. "You're only speaking to me because I'm _Harry Potter_. Well, think me whatever you will, as long as we can return to the silence you swore yourself to."

Malfoy glared at him. "You! You _tricked_ me!" he spat. Harry shrugged, as Ron glanced back and forth between them. He had the sense that Ron wanted to intervene—_had_ wanted to intervene—but recognised that Harry had to make his own choices, or something.

"Hardly," Harry said. "You promised that we wouldn't exchange words any further. There was no trickery involved in that. The only difference is that now you know my name, as I know yours. Well, be off, will you?"

"You'd better watch it. If you're not careful, you'll meet the same end as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either, blood traitors, making friends with—"

"Say that again," said Harry, sudden anger coursing through him at Malfoy's words. He told himself that Malfoy had no idea whom he was insulting, but he thought of Lily Potter, his mum, thought of Frigga, how, one way or another, it was his mother's kindness that had helped him to endure the Dursleys, had kept him sane in those long nights of turmoil. He thought of Odin, distant but well-meaning. In the moment, it didn't matter which side of the balance of the scales he was standing on. Family was family. How _dared_ Malfoy—?

Ron was incensed, too, but he was swifter than Harry. "I suggest you leave, _now_, or I will not be responsible for what happens to you," he said, his voice quiet and intense. Malfoy swallowed, took a step back, and choked out a laugh, as if trying to laugh the threat off.

"I don't think so," said Malfoy. "We've eaten all our sweets, and you still seem to have some."

"Leave. Now." Harry didn't raise his voice, but he did send Malfoy one of Loki's death glares.

Which never had seemed to work. Huh.

Goyle yelped, and withdrew his hand from the pile of candy, with a rat still stubbornly clinging to it. He whipped his hand through the air until the rat went flying, to crash against the wall of the compartment. Ron dove for Scabbers, and lifted him up in his hands.

"You heard him," he said, head whipping around to glare at all three boys. "_Out_."

Ron's death glare was much more intimidating. Malfoy backed hastily out, followed by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Is Scabbers alright?" asked Harry, bending down to examine Ron's pet more closely.

"I think he's unconscious—no, he's just gone back to sleep. Incredible."

Scabbers most definitely had.

"You've met Malfoy before?" Ron asked, stowing the rat back in his pocket.

Harry grimaced, and began to recount the meeting with the boy at Madame Malkin's.

"I see," Ron said, grinning. "_That_ was what you meant. Well, you were lucky. The Malfoys—Dad reckons they were right in You-Know-Who's inner circle." Harry noted down in his mental tally board that, thus far, everyone called Voldemort "You-Know-Who", which suggested that there was cause, and that he himself ought to do the same. But most of his attention was directed towards Ron. "At the end, they escaped Azkaban—the wizard prison—by pretending they'd been mind-controlled, and _forced_ to commit the atrocities they committed under You-Know-Who's reign."

Ron's voice seemed oddly distant. Harry shivered at the mention of mind-control, although he didn't know why. Or perhaps, he did. Something else, something _other_. Something that had twisted Loki into something unrecognisable, perhaps.

He swallowed, hard, and pushed all such thought aside.

"Oh," he said. His voice sounded small, even to him. "Yes. That's…that's lucky, I suppose."

"A lot of the Slytherins have parents who were Death Eaters," Ron continued, his voice grim. Harry tried to focus on the conversation at hand. "And a lot claimed the same. Slytherin—that's the house of pureblood supremacy. We Weasleys might be purebloods, but we're 'blood traitors'—you heard Malfoy. We've all been in Gryffindor House for generations, now."

Harry decided that he was going to be in Gryffindor House. If not that, then any other house than Slytherin. The last thing he needed was running into Malfoy all the time.


	10. That Poor Old Hat

**Chapter Ten: That Poor Old Hat**

Standing in the Great Hall, watching the other kids be sorted, Harry thought about the song, and considered the four houses. On the train, he'd remembered Frigga's lesson on the magic of the souls of places. The train was full of laughter and intrigue (probably gossip), but Hogwarts was filled with quiet dignity and strength. The Great Hall reverberated with the power of the long-ago Founders, memories and souls fashioned, moulded, and finished here.

This was a place of power, a natural reserve of magic, which could be used for good, or for ill. He would try to keep that in mind. And to continue to pay attention—the castle was huge, and the palace was huge, and if the palace had a myriad different functions and atmospheres, Hogwarts doubtless would, too.

He decided all of this whilst listening to McGonagall's explanation of the houses. He ignored the arrival of the Hogwarts ghosts—their first appearance, as it were. If magic were real, ghosts were a given—they featured in plenty of muggle stories, and belief in them was much more accepted amongst muggles than magic, perhaps because muggles were possessed of a sixth sense (some of them, at least). A castle was bound to have at least some ghosts, and these seemed innocuous—not like the fake-ghosts known as "poltergeists". He dismissed them as uninteresting and unimportant, for the moment. He had no desire to look at the ceiling, enchanted invisible the better to display the sky overhead.

Then the Hat had started to sing, and he'd leant back, fascinated, to stare, smiling a bit as he heard Ron grumbling next to him. Something about the twins misleading him.

Of the four, he thought that Ravenclaw, with its focus on study and wit, seemed the best fit for Loki, and Thor was a natural Gryffindor. And, as he had resolved to be like Thor, even before the dreams had started using names, he'd have to do his best to convince the Hat to put him in Gryffindor.

Not to mention that that was where Ron Weasley said his whole family ended up. That meant Ron probably would be there, too. Another good reason.

The first recognised name to be called was, of course, Hermione Granger. What _was_ a surprise was that, after several minutes, the Hat called out "Gryffindor". He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. Surely her fixation on books meant that she was best suited to House Ravenclaw?

Hmm.

Neville Longbottom also went into Gryffindor, and the Hat had scarce touched Malfoy's head before it screamed "Slytherin". Different people took more or less time. Presumably that meant that the sorting was a more complicated process than Malfoy made it seem with his short sorting.

Before he knew it, it was his turn. He was unprepared, despite being forewarned, for the way that the entire room turned as one to stare at him.

Well, except for his former fellow unsorteds, that was. He swept his gaze around the room, and his eyes caught on Ron, who nodded, and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

He closed his eyes, opened them after a moment, and walked up to the stool bearing the Sorting Hat. Under McGonagall's watchful gaze, he lifted the Hat off the stool, and sat down on the stool, instead. There were plenty of reasons why everyone thus far had sat—habit, tradition, or just for something to do. But, somehow, he suspected that, while a Hat was rooting around in your mind, it probably made sense that you'd be…slightly less aware of the world outside, yourself.

The stool was there to stop people from collapsing, as puppets with cut strings.

Oh, he wished that hadn't been the simile that occurred to him right before putting on a _mind-reading hat_.

Perhaps it reminded him of something.

_My, well, this is unusual_, said the Hat, into Harry's mind. Harry started, as he felt the very familiar tension, the tingling, the urge to run. Fight or flight, they called it, and he had nothing to fight. Perhaps—

_I beg your pardon. __**What's**__ unusual?_ he asked, because one thing that the Dursleys had truly _not_ botched with him was manners. He'd been raised to be polite and proper. Even, as it seemed, to a talking hat.

_I don't think I've ever sorted a god before_, the Hat mused, causing Harry to go utterly still. It wasn't talking about—

_Now, look here, you. I'm not a __**god**__—__those__ are just dreams. How do you know about them, anyway?_

_"There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see__"__,_ the Sorting Hat quoted its own song back at Harry. Right. He remembered it saying that.

_Let's see_, it was saying now. _Plenty of wit and wisdom—I see you already figured __**that**__ out. Not big on fair play, are you, though? And you __**do**__ have a slytherin desire to prove yourself, and the desire to prove your worth to your father—to prove you could be a worthy king—_

_That's not me_, Harry said, finally catching on to where the Hat was looking. _I'm not Loki. I'm Harry Potter. Didn't you hear my name called?_

Could the Hat hear? Well, why not? Might as well assume, and perhaps be proven wrong.

_Denying the truth will not help you in facing the inevitable, my lord. All it will do is make you that much more the unprepared, when Thanos comes for you._

Harry shivered, not knowing why, at the name that was familiar, and not, at the same time. He'd never heard it spoken before—he was sure of that—but the mere mention of it heightened the tension through his whole body, and made dread settle deep into his bones.

The being? The one that had twisted—?

_Oh, all right. Let's see here. You skived off your lessons rather, looking for information about your dreams, which I don't think a Ravenclaw would be able to stomach doing. Knowledge for its own sake, whether here or there, and libraries are not the sorts of places requiring a strategic mind. As for Hufflepuff—well, you do have a rather __**warped**__ sense of justice, don't you? Only to be expected, after living with those Dursleys for __so__ long. But you are loyal to those you love, and, while a bit underhanded in your tactics sometimes, you strive to be a man of your word. Still, not Hufflepuff, I think. You would be alone in a crowd, there._

_That just leaves Slytherin and Gryffindor. You came to this school seeking __for__ a means to be __like__ your brother, to prove yourself to your family by being the "good guy". Perhaps I was wrong to categorise that as ambition. Love is your guiding force, the guidance of your mother, the authority of your father, the protection of your brother. Slytherin would lead you down a bad path, and, whether you put it that way or not, in those words or not, what you seek __for __is __**redemption**__. Slytherin would lead you away from that road._

He wondered if the Hat was only paying attention to itself, or if it was actually listening to his pleas of _not Slytherin, not Slytherin_.

_You're in luck, then, my lord. I choose the students' houses not only owing to the traits they possess, but also by their values, the traits they __**wish**__ to possess. I guide them to the houses that will help them to become who they wish to be. And never fear: for better or for worse, at great cost, with no reward possible, I keep the inner worlds of the students I sort a secret. None shall learn your secrets from __**me**__, my lord._

_Well, too lazy and vengeful for Hufflepuff, too fixated upon the __interests of the moment__ for Ravenclaw, and the slytherins would lead you from your desired course. I suppose, if you wish to become the __**best**__ you can be, if you seek __for the__ grandeur of legendary heroes—and gods—it had better be_ "Gryffindor!"

The Hat yelled the last word aloud, and Harry was reaching to pull it off, mind already whirring back into life to process all that had just happened, when the Hat added, in what passed for a low whisper among mental voices, _Be careful, Your Grace. Perhaps you sensed it__:__ a corner of your mind is not your own. Tread with caution around it, for that way lies madness._

Harry shivered, but was past correcting a piece of headwear. He pulled off the Hat, unseeing, and set it gently down onto the stool, barely hearing the twins' cries of "We got Potter! We got Potter!" as he processed the last, ominous warning of the Hat.

And who was "Thanos"? He shivered again, at the name. There was far more reaction to that name than there should be. He'd barely reacted at all to the mention of Voldemort, and yet this man, this being, whoever it was, whom he didn't know, whose deeds he couldn't name, filled him with such lethargy, weighed him down so that he could only shuffle towards the red-and-gold table?

_Stark's colours_, he thought. He was too tired to filter his thoughts, whether there was any justification to them. He'd told the Sorting Hat that he wasn't a god, and the thing had done the sentient headwear equivalent of patting him on the head and saying, "there, there".

He sat there, brooding, until he heard the name "Weasley, Ronald!" be called, and his attention returned to the moment. There was not a doubt in his mind that, if even he had come into Gryffindor, Ron would do the same.

But he remembered the strength Ron had given him, before his own sorting, and locked eyes with Ron. Another smile. Another nod, as if they were personal belongings being handed back after a checkpoint.

Ron would do it, but that didn't mean that Harry couldn't show his support.

And, sure enough, it didn't take half as long to sort Ron as it had to sort Harry. Ron also looked far more relaxed, posture loose and comfortable, as he slid into a seat next to Harry. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, and grinned, and Harry found that he was smiling, just a little, too. Hermione Granger, seated across from them, gave a tentative smile and wave, and then returned to watching the sorting with rapt attention.

There were only a few students left, of course, with "w" being at almost the very end of the alphabet, and then Dumbledore stood to give a speech to Welcome them (back) to Hogwarts.

It was a very odd speech. Harry wasn't sure how seriously to take it.

The moment Dumbledore seated himself, the plates in the centres of the dining table filled with every type of dinner imaginable (and quite a few Harry'd never heard of). The Dursleys had never quite _starved_ him, per se, at least as he reckoned it, but they'd always kept him on shorter commons than even Aunt Petunia's. He had the ordinary caloric intake equivalent of a ham-and-cheese sandwich per day (two, on a good day!). And, while he'd heard that you could cause yourself _serious_ problems, going from eating very little to overindulging, he couldn't resist piling his plate with some of the foods he'd always wanted to try, but had never had the chance to.

Meanwhile, conversations flared up around him. Initially, he was content to listen, as Hermione badgered Percy Weasley about the courses for the year, and he reassured her that they would be starting small (that made sense, but the tension still lingering in his muscles loosened just a little at the pronouncement). Next, he paid attention to Seamus Finnigan, who was explaining that his Dad had married his Mum before she'd revealed that she was a witch. "Bit of a nasty shock for him," Seamus said, with a grin, and most of those within earshot laughed and nodded.

Harry thought of Loki, thought of the secret that had at last torn the dream-family apart, and turned to Seamus.

"How is it funny, exactly?" he asked, in his politest voice. "I mean, I'm guessing from your reaction that your father, after a brief period of adjustment, reacted well to the news. But that could very easily have gone much worse—for your mother, _and_ for you."

He thought of the Dursleys, Aunt Petunia's resentment, the universal hatred of magic that permeated the Dursley household. Ron sent him a sharp look, as if reading his mind.

"Suppose your father mistreated your Mum and you—or filed for divorce and left her to take care of you by herself? There's a lot of tension caused when people are even of different religions than one another. Suppose your father had been an old-school Christian, who believed that witches were all evil, in league with the devil, and it wouldn't be murder to get rid of such a threat to the community?"

"Well, they knew each other well enough that she could guess how he would react—"

"Then why wait until after they were married—when it was too late to fix many of the problems with less extreme measures—to tell him?" Harry cut in, leaning towards Seamus.

Seamus didn't have a ready reply. "I—I dunno. They always seemed okay with it. They laughed about it—"

"I hadn't thought about that," said the boy sitting next to Seamus, taller than Ron, and more solidly built, with short-cut black hair, and dark skin. His head tilted back, as he considered. "Maybe you should write your Mum and ask…?"

Harry tuned them out, again.

"No one thought I was magic at all, until one day, when I was nine. My great-uncle Algie was dangling me out a window, but Aunt Enid asked him if he wanted a slice of pie, and he let go…but I bounced, all the way down the road. He was so pleased that he bought me my pet toad, Trevor."

Neville held up the toad as he mentioned him. Harry facepalmed, and rounded on Neville.

'"Really? Is this the sort of thing that's considered 'acceptable' in wizarding society? Suppose you _hadn't_ bounced? Are you sure your uncle wasn't trying to kill you? And what sort of consolation prize is a toad who keeps running away from you?"

"I _like_ Trevor," Neville protested. "And I know that Uncle Algie didn't want to hurt me. He was just so worried that I didn't have magic at all, see—"

"—that it justified _child abuse_?"

The tension at the table stretched out, as a taut cord. He could feel the eyes of the entire side of their table on him, but he refused to back down. Asgard was one thing, but there was no way a magical society on Earth was this backwards…was there?

"Harry," said Ron, a simple word, just his name, but said in a tone that he couldn't readily identify. "Please, calm down. It's good that you're worried about the world's injustice, but you can't fix things by alienating your friends. As Seamus said, you don't know all the circumstances, and Neville doesn't seem bothered by it. I know you're just trying to help, but…people _do_ need to fight their own battles."

"Right. I'm sorry, Seamus, Neville. I…I just—"

He would not admit to them that personal experience made him keenly aware of the dangers of which they seemed so indifferent. Neville gave him a timid smile, as if, really, he was just glad that Harry seemed no longer on the warpath. Seamus was less forgiving; he crossed his arms, and scowled, but nodded, as if to say, _I'll let it go __**this**__ time_. With them back to their own conversations, Ron rounded on Harry.

"I know you do not know me, and I know too little about you, and perhaps this is presumptuous of me to say, and I hope that you will forgive my saying this, but I think perhaps you are lashing out, thinking about something else. You seem…_preoccupied_, ever since the Sorting Hat finished sorting you. Distracted. Is there something you wish to speak about?"

Harry shivered again, thinking of the familiar name that the Sorting Hat had used. Once spoken, the name seemed to have burrowed into his mind like—like—he didn't even know what. A mole? He'd probably have an easier time finding a relevant simile if he weren't steering clear of everything involving minds, or human beings. He closed his eyes, as if to clear away the Sorting Hat's words, and warning.

"I don't know, myself," he said, because it was easier to admit, with his eyes closed. "Something the Hat said…a name…." He could feel Ron tense in anticipation. Why could he sense that tension in the air? Or was it that, somehow, he knew Ron's mind too well? But that made no sense either. "I think he said…_Thanos_."

He whispered the name, as if it were too dangerous to be spoken louder. Perhaps it was. He couldn't place it, after all. It might belong to anyone, or anything.

"…'Thanos'?" Ron repeated, and Harry flinched. He didn't even know why. He just did. And then he thought of what he'd been considering before: a puppet master, manipulating even _gods_ from the shadows. A formless, vague threat, given at last a name. He now understood the wizarding world's reluctance to speak the name "Voldemort". Would it be better to say it, or to not?

"Harry?" asked Ron, bending over him. Harry had no idea when Ron had moved; he'd been too engrossed in his own thoughts. Ideas were starting to churn in his mind, but none of them were good. He wanted to banish them all from reality.

_He slaughters the half of every world he conquers, and calls it __**mercy**__._

He was fairly sure that that was Loki's voice, or a memory of it, but one he couldn't place. It felt as if the world were unraveling around him, beneath him, and he'd fall into the void….

"Harry!" Ron cried, and whacked him on the head. Harry shook his head violently, but felt oddly grateful that Ron had managed to dislodge his thoughts from wherever they'd been heading. Nowhere good, he knew.

And then he remembered the Sorting Hat's entire warning.

_That way lies madness_.

"I'm very sorry, Ron. What were you saying?" he asked, dragging himself back to the present with a monumental effort. He wasn't even resentful in the slightest of Ron's sudden act of violence.

"I believe you were lost in your thoughts, there. They did not seem very pleasant."

"They weren't," Harry said, bowing his head. "I think…you'd better make sure I don't get lost in those thoughts again. The Sorting Hat warned me it might happen, but I didn't even see it coming."

He was babbling, looking up at the row of teachers at the staff table. Were any of them capable of protecting him from the greatest threat—which seemed to originate from his own _mind_?

"I will," said Ron, an oath sworn with immense, and suiting, gravity. He followed Harry's gaze to the staff table. "But you—"

"You can't tell anyone," he protested. "Please, Ron."

Ron bowed his head, and then nodded. "Then, I will be your sole sentinel, if you require it of me. While flattered by the trust you seem to place in me, I wish that you would let others help you, also."

Harry nodded absently, as his gaze alit upon a teacher with pale skin, an aquiline nose, and long, greasy black hair. sitting next to Professor Quirrell, who now wore a purple turban. Why? Who knew?

As he glanced at the former, the man turned to him with a fierce glare, their eyes met, and a sharp pain shot through his scar, and he winced, clutching it in his left hand.

"Harry, are you alright?" Ron demanded. It was probably too many scares in too short of a time.

"I'm fine," Harry muttered. Huh. Maybe he _had_ internalised Asgardian bravado.

"You are _not_ fine," Ron said, frowning. The pain made it difficult to make out Ron's expression, exactly, but he could still recognise a frown when he saw one. "Perhaps you should—"

"It's nothing," Harry repeated. "Just growing pains, I expect," he said, voice deliberately light. He'd fooled plenty of people with his feigned levity.

But, apparently, _not_ Ron Weasley, who seemed to be determined to be his bodyguard, or something.

"From your _scar_?" he asked. "I saw you clutching your head, just now—"

"Who's that teacher speaking to Professor Quirrell?" he demanded of Percy. Percy, while not exactly pleased to be interrupted, seemed to recognise the urgency in Harry's voice, as did Ron, whose expression said, _this is not over, young man_. Harry resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh, you already know Professor Quirrell, do you? No wonder he looks so nervous: that's Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Harry repeated, forehead crinkling as he pondered this new information. Had he, perhaps, heard that name before? From Mum?

"The Head of Slytherin House," Percy elaborated. "And everyone knows how much he hates anyone who isn't in Slytherin. And Quirrell has the job Snape's been applying to for years: Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. No matter if the job _is_ jinxed."

"Jinxed?" repeated Harry, eager for any distraction. Percy nodded.

"No teacher has lasted for more than a year in the position for decades. Almost everyone agrees that the job must be cursed, somehow."

Huh. Well, _that_ made a lot to think about.

He was still thinking about everything that had happened a short while later, when the plates cleared themselves, and Dumbledore stood to give a second, more traditional speech, in what seemed to be a usual style for him—a mixture of light-hearted wit, and genuine warmth and concern. Parsing out what was meant to be taken literally, what metaphorically, and what was only a joke was something of a task.

He decided that the warnings concerning prohibited activities and items was sincere, as well as the gravely-delivered threats concerning the Forbidden Forest, and the third-floor Charms corridor. As the latter was inside, he hoped that said corridor was well-labeled. To do otherwise seemed to be inviting trouble.

He _almost_ forgot about Ron's determined fixation with getting him treatment for his unknown ailment. It was a bit like Thor being the overprotective big brother to Loki, and, while it was nice to have someone—even a stranger—_care_ about Harry's well-being, it was also…well, rather trying. He was used to having to take care of himself, _by_ himself. He had no idea how to react towards someone wanting to help _him_.

"My scar hurt when I glanced over at Professor Snape," he said, as they walked through the corridors, following Percy to the Gryffindor Common Room, as they'd never been, and didn't know the way. Also, there was apparently a password. "That's all I _know_. But I don't think it has anything to do with…you know…Thanos." He managed to force out the name.

"Anything else I might say would be pure conjecture. For instance, the notion that Snape might hate me, personally, when he could just have easily been glaring at you, or someone else in Gryffindor, or just the gryffindor table in general. Call it a hunch, perhaps based on the bias of experience."

He shrugged, and spread his arms wide. "Now, you know as much as I. Now, will you leave me be?"

"Your scar—"

"Doesn't even hurt anymore. It was just a brief flare of pain, which immediately subsided. Don't you have your own problems to deal with?"

He hadn't meant to snap at Ron, but Ron was being overbearing, and Harry had had a rather…_exciting_ day. He needed time to process it, and Ron seemed almost determined to prevent this. That was a paranoid thought, there.

They arrived at the portrait hole a short time later. Ron had not said a word more.


	11. The Face of the Enemy

**author's note (on Ron):**

Look: Ron doesn't do subtlety. He's no good at it, as he says himself in chapter 22. So, yes, even when he's trying to fit in, he sticks out like a sore thumb. That's intentional. It just shows he's no good at being less than completely honest and straightforward.  
Give him a chance; don't give him a chance. Just understand that Ron is supposed to sound a bit…_different_, shall we say. Truth be told, after chapter 9, I expected to have an author's note above chapter 10, explaining why _Harry_ didn't notice the blatantly obvious. Perhaps that means I failed as a writer.  
(Harry won't notice due to insufficient experience; Neville and Dean are too…_alarmed_ by Ron to comment, after this chapter; Hermione is not about to ruin the first friendships she ever has over something so trivial, when it's clear that Ron is a good person, who means well, at any rate.)

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: The Face of the Enemy**

It was a good thing that Harry had a visit to Hagrid's to look forward to, because the entire week thus far had been a nightmare—or rather, a series of literal nightmares divided by days filled with staring and whispering behind his back. If that wasn't enough, there was also the Hogwarts resident "poltergeist", Peeves. Whether or not he _was_ a poltergeist, according to standard usage, was a matter for debate. What he _was_ was a nuisance who did not take kindly to the realisation that Harry could tell when he was lying, and therefore would not fall for his false directions. It was rather tempting to see whether a ghost that was more corporeal than the standard ones was also more…vulnerable. Harry was not in the best frame of mind.

A somewhat mitigating factor was the Gryffindor House ghost, whom Harry took to calling "Sir Nick", to respect both his rank and his desire for informality. Perhaps it was a certain familiarity in the way he comported himself that put Harry at ease, reminding him of the palace. Perhaps it was Sir Nick's general good grace and humour, and his willingness to set even Slytherins on the proper course.

And, speaking of, this was before his first Potions lesson, where he learnt that his instinct must most assuredly have been correct: Snape _did_ hate him, for whatever reason.

He couldn't wait for September Thirtieth, when he could ask his Mum if she knew a "Snape", and what his problem with Harry might be.

"Ah, Harry Potter. Our new…_celebrity_," said Snape, upon reaching Harry's name on the roll. But he'd continued on through the list before redirecting his attention back to Harry.

"Potter! What will I get if I added powdered root of asphodel and infusion of wormwood?" he snapped. Harry, worn out by his vague nightmares, and not having memorised the textbook, as Hermione had, gave a small shrug, trying to seem unintimidated, but respectful.

"I don't know, sir," he said, making sure that he sounded as respectful as he could.

"Tut tut…fame clearly isn't everything. Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming here, eh?"

Snape's eyes glinted, as he seemed to catch the tiny motion of Harry biting his tongue to keep from retorting. Snape was higher on the pecking order. There was nothing Harry could do. It was quite galling; he had done nothing to merit such disdain as he sensed oozing from the man before him.

"Where would you look if I asked you for a bezoar?" Snape continued.

_In your potions cabinet_, Harry struggled not to respond. "In the stomach of a goat, sir," he said, and Snape's eyes narrowed.

At least he had found no fault with that response. "Tell me, then, Potter, what is the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?"

"One of the names comes from Greek, and the other is Germanic, but they're essentially the same plant," Harry said.

"I don't recall asking you to show off, Mr. Potter," said Snape, eyes narrowed. His nose wrinkled into a sneer. He shot a glare towards Hermione, who had ignored all the warning signs of a bully, and stood with her hand raised to the ceiling. She'd grown progressively more desperate as Snape had continued to grill Harry. Her posture screamed: "Ask me! I know! Ask me!"

"_Sit down_, Ms. Granger!" Snape snapped at her, and, deflating, Hermione sank onto her chair again. Ron glared at Snape, who, thankfully, was too busy glaring at Harry to notice.

"For your information, wormwood and powdered asphodel make a potion so strong, it is known as the Draught of Living Death. And yes, aconite and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of monkshood. And, much as it _pains_ me to admit it, Potter _does_ at least know where to find the most basic antidote to poison. It is well known for being the much prized and rare universal antidote. Well, what are you all waiting for? Why aren't you writing this down?"

Harry thought he'd probably remember this for the rest of his life, anyway—it had to be up there amongst his top ten worst first impressions ever made, and he'd probably remember the scene as long as he remembered Snape. He'd definitely still remember by the end of the year. Nevertheless, it never did to flout authority; he removed his quill, ink bottle, and some parchment, and began to write.

Yes. For whatever reason, Snape did hate _him_ specifically. He'd managed to take ten points from Harry by the end of the class for trivial infractions, as well as his "cheek". Which made no sense, because Harry'd gone out of his way to be as polite and accommodating as possible.

He was fuming by the time he left class, and he was free to express his true feelings. Ron looked a bit alarmed at how quickly Harry's expression soured.

It was nice, Harry decided, to have someone to rant to, someone who listened. He wasn't sure he'd exactly stayed on the topic of Snape throughout his entire rant—fatigue was making him a bit muddled in his thoughts—but he was still fuming when he knocked on Hagrid's door an hour later.

"Ah, come in, come in. Good to see you again, Harry. And good to see you've made a friend. Sit down, you two. Don't mind Fang—he's a bit energetic, but harmless."

Hagrid fetched three mugs from his cupboards, and set them down, before filling them with water.

"You must be another Weasley," he told Ron. "Don't know how many times I've had to chase your twin brothers away from the forest—"

"He's Ron," Harry interrupted. It was no fun, having older brothers, living in their shadows, constantly being recognised only as comparison to them. He knew that full well, and didn't want Ron to sink into the same trap as he had. As Loki had. Whatever. Life was too confusing, and he was too tired, to stick to any given decision regarding his dreams.

Ah, yes. Dreams. Nightmares. They'd returned, but they bore no happiness for him, now. He wanted to shove them aside, and not think about them, until tonight, when he'd have to. He knew that, if he could just bear through it, the dreams would eventually run their course. The problem was, it was hard to convince his pounding heart and racing mind of this fact, when it came time to sleep. And, while twelve hours a night was probably excessive, twelve hours a _week_—

Had the water in his mug just darkened and turned red? Probably not, but he set it hastily aside, anyway.

He forced himself to pay attention to the conversation, piecing together that the grubby little package from vault 713 had been something very special, indeed, before stumbling back to the castle. He didn't even have an answer for Snape's profound animosity towards him. Just _what_ was he supposed to have done to this man?

After dinner, despite knowing better, he was finding sleep an incredibly tempting prospect. He'd done all his homework for the previous few days, and the weekend was here, meaning he had some time to work on that assigned today. And to sleep. He could use that.

Which made him a bit quicker to lash out at Ron when the red-headed boy pulled him aside, worry clear in his (amazingly open) face.

"Harry, we need to talk," he said. Harry gave a heavy sigh, and wondered if there were some way that he could convince Ron to wait for later.

"If this is still about my scar on the first night—"

Ron blinked, looking momentarily taken aback, and Harry concluded that that thought had been far from Ron's mind, if not altogether forgotten. Okay, then, what?

"Not about that," he said, pulling Harry aside of the common room. "It's about your nightmares."

Harry tensed. How could Ron _possibly_ know about those? Unless….

He closed his eyes, and bowed his head. He remembered those dreams, as he remembered all his _different_ dreams. And these were all very painful, twisted, unpleasant things. It was possible that he'd….

"You woke up the rest of the dorm, once or twice," Ron continued, voice grim. He didn't look half as haggard as Harry felt; clearly he'd been able to get back to sleep after Harry had dragged himself into wakefulness and gone back down to the abandoned common room to work on his homework.

"Very sorry to have interrupted your beauty sleep," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. His temper, never exactly under control, was much closer to the surface owing to lack of sleep. He was feeling a bit reckless…and petty. He needed to vent, but had no experience in how to.

"Is this about…" Ron hesitated, as if deliberating whether or not to say the name. Botheration. There was already a "You-Know-Who". How could they talk about Thanos without using his name?

Even hearing it from within the confines of his own mind—especially in the confines of his own mind—made him flinch. Thankfully, or perhaps not, that was answer enough for Ron, who sighed, and sagged.

"Harry, I want to ask a favour. Will you do something for me?" Ron asked. Harry discovered that Ron had mastered the puppy-dog eyes.

"That depends. What is it?" he demanded. He wasn't about to commit to _anything_ without knowing what it was he was agreeing to. He'd only known Ron for a week!

"Well…first, do you think it's possible that (…you know) _Thanos_, is a real person, somewhere? Because, if so, he could be affecting your mind from a distance. And—"

"Why would he be after _me_?" Harry asked, running his hand through his bangs, revealing the lightning bolt scar that provided one possible answer to his question. Ron attempted to raise a single eyebrow in response. Harry frowned.

"You think he works for You-Know-Who?" asked Harry, feeling ragged and thin. Too many threats, on too many fronts. Too many emergencies eating away at his attention.

"It's possible. But…now. The way you reacted…."

"If he's real, then he's a greater threat than You-Know-Who," said Harry. Loki's words drifted through his mind once more: _he slaughters the half of every world he conquers…and calls it __**mercy**_.

If Voldemort had such power, the muggle world would know about it. Thanos was a far distant threat; that was the secret to his latency.

"And much further away," he added.

Ron sighed, hanging his head. "All the same… I had no choice but to speak to the other boys in our dorms. Neville and Dean shared my concerns, such as they are, and wish to help you. Harry, you don't have to suffer alone. Trust us. Perhaps _we_ can help you. You are running yourself ragged, trying to endure this alone."

Harry hesitated. "You're asking me—"

"You don't _have_ to. We are not forcing you to do anything. But 'a burden shared is a burden halved'. You need not share more than you think best. But…perhaps…if it might help you…."

"They're waiting for us, are they?" asked Harry, unable to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice.

Ron nodded, and wouldn't meet his eyes. Great. Still, he meant well. That had to count for something.

Harry went over to sit in one of the armchairs of the Gryffindor Common Room. It was a rather cosy room, overall, and the chairs were far too comfortable for the task he was about to undertake. Perhaps he could keep himself more alert if he sat in the least comfortable of them.

"Hullo, Harry," said Neville, in a voice barely above a whisper. Dean looked up from a pad of white paper, holding up a hand in silent greeting.

"How did Ron coerce you lot into doing this, anyway?" asked Harry, deciding to test the waters first. Neville shrugged and squirmed, but Dean said, in a would-be casual voice,

"Well, he said he thought we ought to do something about your nightmares, since it was making it hard for us to sleep. Hard to disagree with that. But, don't worry, he made us agree first that: one, nothing said here _leaves_ here, and two, we won't push you to reveal anything. We can have this be a study session, if you want. But you might find it more productive to talk.

"As for why we're here—Neville's here because you were nice to him, and he wants to help you, if he can. And _I'm_ here because I'm a damn good artist, and I might be able to put things down in images. You know what they say: 'a picture's worth a thousand words'."

He held up his notepad—or rather, _sketchpad_, as it was entirely blank, and made of what was quite plainly _not_ parchment—and only then did Harry notice the coloured pencils standing to his side, and the ordinary yellow shave-to-sharpen pencil currently being twirled in the hand not holding the sketchpad still on his lap.

He wondered if that made Dean left-handed, or if he were ambidextrous, or if he'd switch hands to draw. Did it matter, or was he just stalling?

"You really think this will help. Well, I wish that I'd been given forewarning, and told I could just opt out."

"You _can_ walk away," Ron said, from the doorway. He walked over and sat on one of the sofas perpendicular to Harry—across from Dean. Harry was acutely aware that Ron was sitting a great distance away from him, and again felt…tainted…unwelcome. Alienated. Alone.

_A monster_? supplied a horrible part of his mind that he sometimes thought was several steps ahead of him, that knew him better than he knew himself.

Had Loki ever _truly_ trusted anyone with what had happened to him? Had he ever just talked with someone about it all—the big revelation, the envy, the need to prove himself, and then, the torture (because that _had_ to be considered torture; there was no other word for it) and Thanos?

"I suppose I could say a bit," he said, still cautious, still hesitant; ten years with the Dursleys did not inspire trust. "Only, it's all a bit incredible, I suppose. And I have trouble making sense of it. And—it's not pleasant."

No one rolled his eyes. No one said "duh", or "nightmares usually aren't", even though he was well-aware of how stupid he sounded. Perhaps, then, _this_ was what friendship was.

"How bad is it?" asked Neville, in his quiet voice, at last. "If you don't mind my asking."

Harry did not say that of course he minded Neville asking, that this was a very personal matter, as all nightmares are. He wanted to return the favour just dealt him by these three, who were quiet, and listening.

"I…I dream I'm in a metal room, sometimes, and there's a tall, tall man, and he…well, he's got all sorts of different ways of torturing people. He has these lights that shoot through you, and…and I can't even think what they do, but it _hurts_. You're not supposed to be able to feel pain in your dreams, are you?"

"Old wives' tale," said Dean, without looking up.

"_T-torture_?" repeated Neville, voice shaking.

"Is there any other word for it? For having someone try to get inside your mind, or take you apart, or pierce you with a million beams of light? I can't think of another name for it."

Neville swallowed, hard, and looked away. "You can leave, if you want," Harry offered, catching sight of the faint, wan, _drawn_ look on Neville's face. Neville shook his head, visibly steeling himself, and Harry caught a glimmer of why shy, timid Neville might have been sorted into Gryffindor. "It's only…I know someone who—"

He cut himself off. No one pursued the topic. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking rather pensive, with his hands clasped under his chin. Then, he crossed his arms, leant forward, and turned to Harry.

"Do you have any idea who—or what—this man was?" he asked.

"I—I think it's—" Harry paused, unable to continue the sentence, which Ron understood to mean that they were talking about Thanos, again. He straightened his posture, staring straight ahead with an expression of cold resolve. It was the look of someone who has just set themselves a vital, yet dangerous, task. Someone needs to do it, and they volunteer. Nothing more to it.

"If he does indeed exist," Ron pronounced, with deadly gravity. "I will _kill_ him."

Harry looked down at the ground. There was silence, again. What _could_ be said to that vow?

"Er…I…won't go into detail, but—"

"He _tortured_ you?" Ron said, as if he were understanding more of this tale than anyone else. Making more of the dream than Harry himself did.

Harry couldn't meet his eyes, because, unlike the others, he had a sense of what the torture led to. It was coming—the knowledge of how to attempt to hold out against the torture, which had turned more psychological this last dream.

Thanos had threatened to destroy Asgard utterly, had threatened to kill his _family_, and Loki had tried to convince himself that they were all just strangers to him, because if they were strangers, then it didn't matter to him if they lived or died, and Thanos couldn't use them against him. All he had to do was last long enough, until Thanos tired of him, realised he was not as interesting, not as useful, as initially assumed.

_The only way not to break—_

Harry cut his thoughts off. That was Loki's mantra, the thing that had kept him sane, after a fashion, even under pressure. But it came with a cost, one Harry didn't want to pay, not when he was finally _living_, now that he had _friends_, people who cared about him. People who responded to his interrupting their sleep with something other than wrath. Or, rather, when roused to ire, were angry on his behalf. His mother. And now Ron. And perhaps (who knew?) someday Dean, and Neville.

"Dean," he said, because he was currently very much convinced that his dreams were real, and that the threat of Thanos did lurk out there, somewhere. He wanted to put a face to the name. "Do you suppose you could draw him for me?"

Dean gave a slight smile, and readied his pencil. Harry gathered the slightly faded images he had of the cruel man who had, surely, eventually broken a _god_. He tried to leave out no details, and resisted the urge to peek at Dean's drawing, to see how accurate it was, to see if he was any good, or that had just been idle talk. Boasting.

He peered over, when Dean had set aside his coloured pencils, and stared at the image.

Yep, that was Thanos, alright. The wrinkles well-defined, the skin definitely purple, and the lustreless armour. Somehow, imposing even as an image on paper. He felt faint, weak-kneed. He sat down again, abruptly, and saw Ron cast him a glance, catching his sudden weakness, the unusual frailty. Harry was not used to being weak. He was used to persevering, even in the harshest conditions. The Dursleys had not managed to break him, had not bested him with their punishments and their insults and their neglect. But this—

One way or another, he knew how it had ended. How it must have ended. Loki had always been strong, too. If Harry _was_ Loki…could he expect to be any stronger, when the Sorting Hat had told him flat-out that his mind was compromised?

Did Thanos have a way into _Hogwarts_? Were their fears justified? Or was it that he only had to avoid the mantra—which he was beginning to suspect was the route to madness?

"Well?" asked Dean, quite unnecessarily. Harry couldn't speak; he just nodded. Few things could rob Loki of the power of speech, but perhaps this was one—the man who sought for slaughter on an unprecedented scale. Not even the infamous Adolf Hitler could rival him.

Ron came over to look at Dean's handiwork, blocking the distressing image from Harry's line of sight. He glanced at Harry, again, and then picked up the impressively well-drawn picture in his hands, and glanced back at Harry, as if seeking for guidance on what to do.

Harry didn't _know_ what he wanted to do, only that he couldn't bear to look at the picture. Perhaps it hadn't made it worse to endure, but seeing the lifelike image hadn't made the nightmares any _easier_ to handle.

He had the feeling that Ron was going to memorise Thanos's appearance so that, if their paths ever crossed, he'd recognise him on sight, and know whom to kill.

…Ron was kind of scary, sometimes, come to it.

Harry slowly breathed out, as if he could exhale all the turmoil the picture and talk had kicked up.

"Thank you, Dean," he said, trying, and failing, to smile. Dean's reply was a quiet, "No problem."

They all agreed that Thanos was a rather ugly-looking, intimidating presence, but none of them knew how it felt to lie, trapped and powerless, under his thumb. None of them knew how it was to build up your defences with a mantra that perhaps instead drove you mad.

He had to tell them about the mantra, didn't he? The problem was, he knew that even _thinking_ the words of it was trouble, but to _speak _them….

Well, he'd rather not risk it, let's just say. Fine by him. He'd just have to find a way to warn them. Or at least tell Ron.

And to repay Neville. Because he was pretty sure he'd never done anything for Neville, especially not anything warranting such gratitude.

He kept silent about the threats Thanos made to Loki's family, because that would make things too complicated, and would be admitting too much. And he left out Thanos's "children", because they seemed horrified enough as it, all sitting there wide-eyed, Ron with what he suspected were _tears_ in his eyes.

No, he'd wait. And hope there wasn't a penalty for it. That he didn't wait too long.


	12. First Impressions

**Chapter Twelve: First Impressions**

Time continued to pass, and Malfoy continued to be insufferable, and meanwhile, flying lessons approached, and when they saw that it was a double lesson, and with the _slytherins_, of all people, half of the gryffindor first years groaned. They just knew that the slytherins would make the lesson miserable, somehow.

They were right, except in that it went worse than expected. And also…better.

Neville's grandmother had thoughtfully sent him a useless red crystal ball that told you if you were forgetting something. He smiled at the gift when he opened the package at the gryffindor table.

"It's a remembrall!" he whispered. "Gran knows I'm a bit forgetful, and they're supposed to help you remember. If it turns red—" Red smoke filled the marble, as if on cue, "—it means you've forgotten something."

He was so fixated upon trying to remember what he could have forgot that Malfoy was able to saunter right over and abscond with the thing. Did that boy not have a life, or something? Harry was already in a nasty mood on account of his persistent nightmares: Thanos had progressed to tormenting Loki with the accusatory dying visages of his family, blaming him for not saving them. Thanos knew how to get into people's minds—or maybe that was the power of the Mind Stone. Harry couldn't tell, and Loki was too busy being tortured to give the matter much serious thought.

Watching Thor be tortured and then killed for the third night in a row had stretched Harry's temper to its limit. Combine it with the lack of sleep, and any sort of level-headedness he might ordinarily have displayed was out the window.

"Give it back, Malfoy," he said, his voice low and deadly. He was tired of Malfoy's petty nonsense. One of these days, something would force Malfoy to grow up, but it didn't seem right that everyone else had to put up with him until then.

For once, both he _and_ Ron were itching for a fight, which made it almost a disappointment when Professor McGonagall sorted the matter out for them.

And then came the flying lesson.

Malfoy goading them? Fair enough. Typical of him. Predictable. Malfoy taking advantage of Neville's mishap to steal the remembrall and shoot off into the sky to play an aerial game of keep away? Low. Neville wasn't even here; he was in the Hospital Wing. It wasn't about Neville. It was about Harry.

Hadn't Harry decided that he owed Neville a debt for his assistance with the dreams? For his understanding, and patience? Harry, ignoring Hermione's admonitions, swung onto the school broom, and shot into the air after Malfoy. And swiftly discovered that he was—quite inexplicably, because he had no past-life background in it to give him a boost—_good_ at flying.

Ron stayed on the ground, below, conferring with Hermione as to how they could go about rescuing him if worse came to worst. If Ron had taken to the sky, then Malfoy would have found a way to drag his flunkies up here with him, and Harry would have been outnumbered. Instead, he could shove in Malfoy's face the fact that it was Harry's (superior!) skill in flying against Malfoy's admittedly immense skill. No Crabbe and Goyle to fight his battles for him, up here—but, if it came to blows, Harry could do that.

Ron was keeping Crabbe and Goyle on the ground, aided by Seamus and Dean. Hermione was wringing her hands and muttering under her breath. Quite possibly about all the rules that he and Malfoy were breaking; Harry didn't care. It felt as if being in the air had blown away all his troubles. It was the sense he was used to only from his dreams—the before-fall dreams—that this was _Harry's_ terrain, or one of them, at least. Malfoy didn't know what was coming at him.

The sky, he was almost certain, was Thor's domain, and not Loki's, which would make this a borrowed arena, but—

Thor would _definitely_ understand, if he'd heard even half of the vitriol that Malfoy spewed as often as he breathed.

"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry said, for the third time. There was magic in the number three, a special, latent power. Harry would not ask a fourth time. He had asked once, at breakfast, and he had asked when they both first took to the sky, before Malfoy realised that he was outclassed. This was Malfoy's last chance, and although Harry knew that Malfoy wouldn't take it, still, the weariness sunk in deep brought with it a fervent…_hope_ that Malfoy would see sense.

Malfoy valued cunning, nobility, pride, but he wasn't any of those things, not really. His arrogance, even, was entirely dependent upon his family name. Even now, he would bring shame upon his family by being the better man and returning the stolen orb.

"Hmm…" he smiled as Harry tensed at the speculative, considering drawl to his voice. Harry recognised the signs of Malfoy-about-to-do-something-pointlessly-cruel, but didn't yet know _what_. "If you want that toy of Longbottom's so bad, then _catch_!" he cried, and threw the ball towards the ground.

Harry gained a greater understanding of Thor's impulsivity. In the heat of the moment, when there wasn't the time to weigh pros and cons, there was neither time to talk yourself into things, nor to see sense, to realise that what you were about to do was stupid, and dangerous. His thoughts, such as they were, were that Neville wasn't here to retrieve the ball, that he quite thoroughly despised Malfoy, and that he owed a debt to Neville.

He dove, outstripped the remembrall, and caught it one-handed, bringing up the broom just in time to avoid a nasty crash into the ground. Hitting at _that_ speed….

Hey, it hadn't happened! Why dwell on it after the fact?

"Harry Potter!" McGonagall shouted at an impressive volume for a woman of her age. Ah. That was why. "Never—in all my years—"

She strode over to their circle, and Harry sought for Ron. Instead, he saw Malfoy's triumphant smirk, and clenched his hands into tight fists before his suddenly reckless body could do something _else_ before he thought through the consequences. Maybe, say, break Malfoy's nose.

"Professor, I—" he began, but stopped, unsure of what he would say. There was no use in lying; she'd clearly seen the last part of what happened, but what _else_ had she seen? Just _what_ was she objecting to his doing? Probably riding one of the school broomsticks without a chaperone, for not waiting, as Hooch had ordered. Combine that with the dive he'd somehow just pulled off, and….

"Professor, it wasn't Harry's fault—" Lavender Brown protested.

"That's enough, Miss Brown," McGonagall said, silencing her with a look.

"But Malfoy—" Ron began, having come over to Harry. "You didn't see what he—"

"That's enough from _you_, too, Mr. Weasley," she said. "Potter, come with me."

Harry now wondered what manner of punishments Hogwarts had. Well, whatever it was, it couldn't be any _worse_ than the ones he was used to, or than the torture. Could it? Just what sorts of punishment did wizards find acceptable, anyway?

McGonagall strode away from the cleared field in front of the castle, marching inside, leaving Harry almost running to catch up, and cursing his incredibly short legs. He kind of missed being what passed for an average height amongst the people he associated with. He hated being _short_, although it sometimes came in useful….

He turned over the possibilities for what his punishment could possibly be for breaking a school rule ensuring his safety, and others', and whether or not he could bring Malfoy down with him.

He did not expect for them to stop before an ordinary classroom door, for McGonagall to request that Professor Flitwick "lend her Wood", for Wood to turn out to be the captain of the gryffindor quidditch team, or for him to now be on the roster as the youngest Seeker in a century. McGonagall had ordered him a Nimbus Two Thousand, and everything, and Ron seemed to be torn between concern that he might have injured himself, and pride in his accomplishment. The latter won out, to Hermione's immense disapproval. But Harry had most definitely utterly crushed Malfoy, and it hadn't even come to blows.

That didn't make the dreams any easier, of course. And Malfoy, enraged at Harry's "reward for breaking school rules!" as Hermione called it, before storming off in a huff, knew he had to reassert his power amongst the slytherin hierarchy without delay.

Or, that was the outward justification for the most recent trick he was planning. Was Harry really supposed to believe that Malfoy wanted to duel him, one-on-one, in an old trophy room? Not a chance. Then, what his real objective? Harry's mind whirred along, happily analysing Malfoy's other possible machinations.

Students weren't allowed out after curfew—it was a matter of safety. They didn't know where the trophy room was; for all he knew, it was in or near enough the third floor forbidden corridor to get Harry into trouble if he wandered near. Those were the most obvious traps. It might also be an ambush, but—that depended upon Malfoy having some way to hide himself from prying eyes, lest _he_ be caught out after curfew.

That meant, of course, that Harry would have to find a workaround that suggested that he wasn't merely backing down.

"I see. The old school trophy room," he repeated, in a considering tone. "I'm afraid, being muggle-raised, as I said before, I have no idea where that room is. I'll tell you what: anyone you could possibly ask from gryffindor knows the way to the Tower. Come to the Tower at the appointed time, and you can lead us to the trophy room. I'm not foolish enough to tell you the password to the dorms, but we _will_ check and see if you show up. If you don't show up by one, the deal is off. Show up before then, and we'll go to the battleground of your choosing."

"And I'm his second!" Ron leapt in. He'd clearly been bursting to contribute something. Harry was surprised that Ron hadn't agreed on his behalf. He was practically _bouncing_ with anticipation.

Malfoy's look soured. "I don't know what you're—"

"It's simple. Come to Gryffindor Tower, if you really want to settle this. That's a sign that you're serious. In return, we'll let _you_ choose the battleground, which is the more important advantage—unless you weren't planning to actually follow through?" Harry tried to make it sound as if this thought were only just occurring to him.

Malfoy jerked his head in a stiff nod, and turned away.

"I couldn't help hearing what you and Malfoy were talking about—" Hermione said, storming over to them, her hair seeming somehow bushier than usual. Perhaps it was her heightened emotional state.

"I thought you weren't talking to us," Harry said, in his mildest voice. She had sworn no vows, unlike Malfoy, and he found it difficult to resent her. She was probably a decent person, if she could just stop showing off, and loosen up a little about the rules, rules, rules.

"I see," was all Ron said. "And you plan to do…what?"

"I can't believe you're actually going through with this!" Hermione fumed. "Don't you know that Malfoy's only goading you? You'll lose all the points I got from Professor Flitwick for knowing about switching spells—"

"I don't think there'll be a duel, Hermione. And we won't be breaking any rules, otherwise. We're only wandering the school grounds after curfew if Malfoy shows, which I doubt that he'll do. There's surely no crime in occasionally opening the portrait door to see if Malfoy has shown, after all."

"Then…the duel isn't going to happen? You lied to Malfoy?"

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on loosening his tense muscles. Specifically, unclenching his fists. "Although I fail to see how it is any of your business, I have already made this clear enough, but let me clarify still further: if Malfoy should come to the Gryffindor portrait door—if he makes the actual effort, and takes the risk of being caught out after curfew, then it would be most…_unchivalrous_ and _dishonest_ of me to go back on my word. If he comes to the common room, then we will have our duel. However, I believe that this entire deal is just a trap, and I don't expect him to show up at all."

"But…the rules!" Hermione protested. "I thought you were the _sensible_ one! Surely, you see that going to the duel would break school rules!"

Harry sighed, and rested his chin in a hand, not looking at Hermione.

"There is more to common sense than just avoiding trouble. Sometimes, the best course of action is to follow the rules, and to avoid confrontation. But Malfoy has shown that if he can't vent his ire in one way, he will find another. To get to _me_, he stole Neville's remembrall. Although neither of us got in trouble for it, that won't be enough for him. He'll keep pulling at whatever threads he can, until, sooner or later, something gives. If we can talk sense into him—or even b_eat_ it into him—before he reaches the boiling point, we might be able to avoid troubles further on. For his sake, and more than that, for the sake of those he abuses, I would prefer that he follow my advice. In victory, or in defeat, it would teach him something about picking a fight with _me_. Perhaps, then, he would show more restraint. Constantly backing down, and fleeing his challenges, will only embolden him. I refuse to take that route. Disapprove if you will, Hermione. I hope, however, that you understand _why_ I am doing what I am."

She blinked, several times, and then turned on her heel. He couldn't tell how she felt about the whole affair.

* * *

Neville Longbottom was released from the Hospital Wing that night, as Harry discovered when he opened the portrait door to check for Malfoy at nine-thirty.

"Neville!" he exclaimed. "I didn't expect to see you here. Have you recovered?"

"What?" asked Neville. "Oh—yeah, Madame Pomfrey fixed up my wrist quickly, but then I had to stay a few hours so that she could make sure that it was fully healed. I made my way up here since then, but I don't remember the password, so I've been stuck outside. "

"I see," said Harry, nodding. "Has Malfoy been by?"

Neville frowned. "No. Why would he be up here, anyway?"

Harry hesitated. "Come on in, Neville, and I'll fill you in."

And he pulled Neville through the portrait hole, and filled him in on Malfoy's challenge. "I hadn't expected him to show, yet, but Ron and I have been checking in shifts—"

"I'll help," said Neville, his mouth set in a straight line.

Harry just nodded, and they conferred with Ron to set up a new schedule for their regular portrait-hole visitor checks.

It surprised none of them that Malfoy hadn't shown by one o'clock.

Due to their careful arrangement of checks, they were able to each get pretty much a full night's sleep, and were none the worse for wear the next day.

Harry, meanwhile, determined to find whether there even _were_ such a trophy room. It would be akin to him holding up his side of the duel. He explored the corridors the next night, joined by Ron, who seemed to have a sixth sense for when Harry was doing something potentially dangerous, and who thus tagged along.

Even _Ron_ seemed a bit disconcerted by the giant three-headed dog, but Harry was less phased. The dog seemed to be less upset by his presence than it was by Ron's. Or, at least, all three of its heads, each big enough to fit a whole Harry Potter inside, were trained on Ron, who didn't freeze up, but gave the dog a considering stare.

Harry yanked him back, and slammed the door shut behind them.

"That's the Forbidden Charms Corridor," Harry said, frustrated. "Where the hell is the trophy room?"

Ron gave a vague sort of smile, and followed Harry as they wandered off again. They did, eventually, find the trophy room, but by then, Harry was paying much less attention to the trophies than he was to his memory of the third floor corridor, wondering what lay beneath the trapdoor at the dog's feet.

A pity, because he could have afforded to recognise the name of Tom Riddle when he next saw it.

* * *

On the night of September Thirtieth, Harry entered the cabin for the first time since he had started school at Hogwarts. Half of him had expected for something about the nature of Hogwarts to block that connection, somehow, even if his mother had attempted to explain that they were bound together by shared blood, inseparable. As it was, he felt tension he hadn't consciously identified leave his body as the cabin appeared before him; the leaves of the plants beginning to change colour, the flowers all gone, the cabin readied itself for winter. This was not, then, a land of eternal spring and growth. Not that it mattered.

What _did_ matter was the knowledge gleaned from his mother that she had, in fact, been _friends_ with Professor Snape, from when they had been growing up together. Snape even knew Aunt Petunia (then how could he _possibly_ try to make Harry's life any worse, if he knew Harry's evil aunt?). The problem with Harry was that he closely resembled James Potter, who had destroyed Lily and Snape's friendship.

Just how was that _Harry's_ fault? Apparently, Harry was being tormented because he was living proof of that break, and because he closely resembled James, physically. That seemed phenomenally unjust to Harry—was he, then, a victim of circumstance?—but there was nothing he could do. He sighed, and resigned himself to this fact.

Nevertheless, she assured him that Professor Snape would not try to harm him, because, no matter how he hated James Potter, Harry was all that remained of Lily. Her last lingering connection to the world. Only such a fool as Dumbledore would delude himself into thinking that any real bond endured between Aunt Petunia and Harry's mum.

He supposed that this small assurance was worth something. Far more reassuring was the fact that the dreams of torture ground to a halt after her visit. Perhaps she was holding them at bay, or perhaps his mind was soothed enough that it sealed whatever wound had opened him up to such dreams to begin with. Harry didn't care, and the rest of Gryffindor Tower just seemed glad that they didn't have to put up with them anymore.

The next visit with his mother fell on the night of October Thirty-First. The events of that day stood out particularly clearly. Malfoy had made a snide comment to Hermione after she'd one-upped him, or one of his slytherin "friends", at something (what, he didn't know, as he hadn't been paying attention to the event when it happened, too focused on his own work). She'd gone off, crying, to the girls toilets, and still hadn't shown up come time for the Hallowe'en Feast. When Quirrell came in, claiming that a troll had somehow gotten into the school, Ron had stood up, with a look of foreboding resolve, and Harry, sighing, had followed. What was it about Hermione? Ron was quite determined to ensure her safety, for whatever reason. Not that Harry wanted her _harmed_, but….

Harry turned over a number of theories as to why this could be, as they snuck away from the rest of gryffindor, heading for safety, detouring to the girls toilets in time to see the troll stroll casually in.

Ron flung open the door to enter the fray, and Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and followed.

He discovered that Ron could hold his own alarmingly well against a troll, despite his limited knowledge of magic, and the fact that he was only eleven years old. He also discovered that Hermione tended to freeze up under threat of her life. If it was fight or flight, she appeared to be in the "stay still and wait it out" category with rabbits. He tugged on her sleeve, trying to get her to move, but she remained still as a statue.

Ron hurled the pipes of the sinks at the troll, and then managed to cast a perfect _wingardium leviosa_ on the troll's club, knocking it out. Why he would resort to a spell that he hadn't yet managed to make work, Harry didn't know. Harry's contributions stemmed primarily from what Lily had taught him of magic after they'd discussed Professor Snape—low-level hexes that could trip a troll up, even, or restrict its movements—the magical equivalents of sand in the eyes, and tripwires. Slightly underhanded, but this was not a duel. The goal was to distract the troll well enough that they could all make good their escape. Not that Hermione was much help in this regard.

He was about to try to tap into the _other_ side of magic, the side he had less faith would work for several reasons, when Ron knocked the troll unconscious. It had basically been a fist-versus-club fight up to that point. Ron didn't have enough knowledge of spells to fight using magic, and the troll had a weapon, but no magic at all. It was a very uneven fight, but Harry admitted that, rash and reckless though it was to attack a troll despite being _that _outclassed, Ron held his own surprisingly well. Alarmingly well, for a human.

He shook his head to dispel _those_ kinds of thoughts, and continued to drag a wobbly Hermione Granger towards the door.

"Is it—Is it _dead_?" she asked, nearly falling flat on her face as she tripped over something that wasn't there.

"Nah—I don't think so. Just unconscious. Let's get out of here."

She clung to his arm for support as they made their way out.

Except they never made it to the door, because four professors burst into the room, as if drawn by the incredible racket of pipes hitting the walls, clubs breaking sinks, and a ten-foot-tall troll hitting the ground hard. Fortunately, one of those Professors was McGonagall, who listened without judgement to the truth as Harry laid it out—that there had been orders given for a retreat to the dorms, and they had been among the last to leave the common room, and were behind the rest of gryffindor, when Ron had stormed off in search of the girls bathroom, remembering the gossip he'd heard at the beginning of the feast that Hermione was still bawling her eyes out over what Malfoy had said that day.

Harry, watching from the corner of his eyes, wondered if Hermione flushed red from embarrassment that her weakness had been revealed, or something else. She kept her gaze on the floor, answering only clarifying questions; she knew little of what had brought Harry and Ron, after all. McGonagall and Quirrell were all for rewarding the trio of them for their bravery, accepting that this was an extenuating circumstance, especially when Hermione declared that the troll was about to come after her when Harry and Ron had appeared—there'd been no time to go for help, and they'd saved her life.

Unfortunately, one of the professor witnesses was Snape. He argued for harsh punishments, that Harry was flouting school rules, and was leading Weasley into similar delinquency. Harry frowned. _Loki_ might have done such a thing, but Harry liked to think that _he_ was different. This hadn't even been his idea, however, although it was undoubtedly chivalrous, daring, and brave. It made him question his worth as a gryffindor. Ron hadn't hesitated, but Harry had thought through the ramifications of his actions before he _followed_. This had all been Ron's idea, not his, and he'd just followed Ron's lead. What did that say about him?

Hermione didn't seem to care about these details. The feast was brought up to Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione waited outside the common room door for them. Apparently, saving her life was enough for her to overlook their past transgressions, and to finally accept that their motivations were good enough, and that, if they'd broken school rules intended to ensure their safety in order to save her life, perhaps it was occasionally okay to break the rules.

That night marked the first Hallowe'en ever spent with Lily Potter, who spent the entire night _being_ Lily Potter, most unusual for her, as she spoke of all the mundane hopes and dreams she and James had shared before they had been murdered, on this very night, ten years ago.

And Harry finally learnt the truth of how they'd died, and he'd received his scar.


	13. Sie Medea Punctui

**Chapter Thirteen: Sie Medea Punctui**

It was a bit harder to believe that Snape would never harm him, after his disastrous first quidditch match. Sure, he'd caught the snitch, winning the game for gryffindor, but that was after a harrowing fifteen minutes (surely it only seemed longer) spent hanging onto his erratically jerking broomstick for dear life.

The flashbacks to Loki's fall from the Rainbow Bridge were probably inevitable, and the power of his nightmares equally. Still, they'd surely run their course _eventually_.

In the meantime, he'd have to deal with the gryffindors watching him warily, soundproofing their own beds for want of a better strategy, and fretting and fussing over him. Even _Neville_, who was almost awestruck at how far Harry had gone to repay him. It made for an odd mixture of adulation and condescension, keeping Harry on his toes as Neville struggled to decide which ultimately prevailed.

Of course, the worry his friends displayed for him ended up paying off after that first quidditch match. It was a very good thing, everyone agreed, that Hermione had joined Harry's small circle of close friends. But, to hear how she and the others had described it, Harry had very nearly died because of Professor Snape, who had sabotaged his broomstick, somehow, and was the reason that Harry had almost fallen off.

He had no defence to make for the man, who was making his life as miserable as possible even after the match. They (Hermione and Ron) ushered him away from his worshippers, shepherding him to Hagrid's cabin.

It still took a few minutes of such safety for his wariness to die down, and the tension to leave his body. He finally took a drink of his water, and Ron at last looked away from him, recognising his no longer rigid body posture as a sign that Harry was no longer the metaphorical deer-in-the-headlights. Not that Ron knew what headlights were, probably, but it was how the saying went. If he recognised the much more important fact that Harry had thawed and was now capable of functioning, that was good enough.

Right now, Hermione was still passionately attacking Snape as being the clear originator of the curse that had almost sent Harry plummeting at least fifty feet. Harry listened, raised an eyebrow, drank his water, and thought.

Ron said nothing, but glanced back at him occasionally, as if afraid he'd relapse if left to his own devices for too long.

"But Professor Snape is a Hogwarts teacher!" roared Hagrid, _probably_ beginning to lose his patience with Hermione. Harry blinked. Previously, he'd assumed that Hagrid's patience was infinite, unless you happened to hit one of his buttons. Perhaps not. He'd better ready himself to intervene. "No Hogwarts professor would ever—"

"Hermione, look," Harry said, sighing and setting the mug aside. It was time for the sort of simplistic, over-simplified explanation he was used to Loki having to give Thor. Which, okay, that meant that Harry'd never had to do one of these, because the Dursleys required a much less subtle approach. Also, Thor wasn't stupid, was he, so the condescension had never been necessary. Hermione was also not stupid, and therefore it wasn't necessary here, either, even _if_ Harry _were_ the sort of person who talked down to people. Growing up with the Dursleys, however, ensured that he didn't have the sort of arrogance required. So, one lecture minus the condescension. He thought he might be able to manage that.

"Professor Snape hates me. He's made that clear from the first five minutes. The moment he spotted my name on the roll call, actually. He hated me with such fervour that the entire class, Slytherins and Gryffindors both, couldn't help but notice."

Hermione nodded with such vigour that he wondered that she didn't break her neck. "Yes, exactly! He hates you—anyone can vouch for the truth of that, and he was muttering, non-stop, under his breath—"

"—without breaking eye contact—" Ron recited, clearly deciding to side with Hermione here. Harry rested his forehead in his hand, and put his elbow on the table. He didn't much feel the need for eye contact for this conversation, thank you.

"Yes, but I'm sure there are plenty of other things he could have been doing—unless you heard the words, and recognised them as a spell. He might even have just been hoping that I fell to my death and that he would be rid of me," Harry said, hiding a small smile at Ron and Hermione's joint indignation by taking a drink of water. Hagrid looked a bit out of breath, and was busying himself about his kitchen with such focus that he had to be listening to Harry's defence, instead.

"Besides that, there's the most obvious problem with the idea that Snape would try to kill me. This is made up of two premises. The first is that Snape isn't an idiot, even though he sucks at teaching."

There was no argument here. "The second is that murdering someone whom you, and you alone, are well-known for despising is a very stupid idea. Everyone would straightaway suspect you. On the other hand, that leaves any _other_ enemies of your enemy in the clear, with a scapegoat ready and waiting."

"Snape is a scapegoat?" Ron repeated, as if Harry had just told him that the sky were made of Swiss cheese. Harry wondered how much he trusted his dream-mother's knowledge to carry over into real life. His scar had hurt in that first feast because Snape had glanced at him, hadn't it? What did that mean? He shrugged, and then nodded.

"He would be easy to frame for my murder, but I don't think he was making any attempt on my life."

"Someone clearly—" Hermione began her passionate tirade in another place, but Harry held up his other hand, the one not currently supporting his head—for silence.

"I'm not denying that _someone_ tried to kill me," he said, deliberately keeping his tone casual and light. "Was there anyone else you disturbed when you set fire to Professor Snape's robes?"

Ron frowned and folded his arms, clearly biting his tongue to keep from commenting on Harry's lighthearted approach. He didn't think that it was funny that Harry had almost died.

Hermione frowned, considering hard and long. Then, a light seemed to click on in her head. "Just Professor Quirrell," she said, with a little frown. "But he couldn't possibly—"

Harry tilted his head back, lifting it up off its stand for just a second as he turned this thought over in his head. Quirrell? Possibility? Surprisingly enough, yes. Then, maybe….

"But he's afraid of his own shadow," Ron protested, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Or he pretends to be," Harry finished. He shrugged. "I suppose that could be a coincidence, too, and the would-be assassin lurked elsewhere, and was disturbed by someone else, at the crucial moment."

Hermione deflated. "But—"

Harry shrugged. He spread his hands, as if to say, "I have nothing more to offer." Hermione sulked.

The topic moved to the hellhound named Fluffy lurking in the third floor corridor. This ended their trip to Hagrid's cabin, because he threw them out for asking too many questions. Still, they now had the vaguely familiar name of "Nicholas Flamel" to go on.

Inspired by Hermione, they all three hit the shelves. Then, Neville and Dean got roped in, with nary an explanation. Flamel decided to be perversely scarce, and even Hermione had no success. Meanwhile, the exams for fall semester came and went, and Christmas approached, and with it Harry's realisation that he hadn't yet come to a decision as to what to do about Christmas, Christians, Christianity, and the whole _you are a god_ thing.

He hadn't even decided whether or not he believed that, himself. It was all quite maddening.

He had decided that, whether or not he celebrated Christmas, he should get and give gifts to everyone else. He'd never before had anyone to give such things to, and he found that it was nice, that anticipation, wondering whether or not they would think the gift suited them, whether or not they appreciated it. He sent away for books for Hermione and Ron. Ron would protest the book, he knew, but he made it the sort of gift that, were he to read it, he would understand and find useful. Easier said than done.

Dean and Neville had been easier, because he knew that Neville liked plants, and Professor Sprout was more than overjoyed to help him pick out something that he could arrange to have delivered to Hogwarts (and to arrange that, for that matter). Dean, he knew, was an artist, and he'd used rather a lot of coloured pencils. This was harder, requiring him to ask McGonagall of means of ordering muggle supplies to Hogwarts, which she had said _could_ be done, although few people appreciated it. Really, however, it would be better if he chose something from a wizarding store.

Thankfully, wizards also drew, painted, and coloured things. He hoped that Dean could work with magical coloured pencils.

Christmas Day passed unnaturally well. He suspected that Ron was just being magnanimous, but as long as he didn't throw the book away…was there anything to complain about?

He made sure to lose a few rounds of wizard's chess to Ron to make up for it. No one had found a way to beat Ron at chess yet, and Harry had begged off the responsibility early on, leaving it to Hermione to be thoroughly trounced. Despite having gone more rounds against Ron than Harry had, she didn't seem able to hold her own as well as Harry had even in his first match. Harry found his recent ten matches lost a sufficient reminder to be nice to Hermione as she nursed her bruised ego.

He had a lot to think about, even with school out for winter break, and Hermione off with her parents. He still wondered who Flamel was, of course, and while the origin of most of his gifts were straightforward, there was one he couldn't figure out. Mrs. Weasley had sent him a package of sweets and a superfluous sweater, which he wore anyway. Hagrid was responsible for the flute, Dean for the dream diary (which Harry glared at him for giving him, but accepted), and Neville for a resource on herbal remedies for soothing nightmares. He didn't know how to react to that. And Ron's and Hermione's gifts were labeled, as Neville's and Dean's were. But who had sent him the invisibility cloak?

The first night, he snuck out alone, after curfew, to research Flamel in the Restricted Section of the library. It wasn't a very good choice, he knew, but they hadn't dared to call attention to the subject of their research. He'd heard the name of "Flamel" before, _somewhere_, but there were far, far too many choices as to where, and he wasn't even sure which lifetime it dated from.

He had the misfortune of pulling the wrong book off the shelf. He replaced it with great haste, and fled. And, by chance, or something else, he ended up in an old, abandoned classroom, a battered-looking room that had probably been forsaken owing to being on the verge of collapse. There was nothing of note there, save for the mirror.

He read the inscription, pondered it for a few seconds, and turned his gaze to the mirror itself. And, to the people in the mirror.

His heart pounded, as he stared, for the first time in his life, at his family. People he'd never known, people he'd never met, and a few familiar faces, as well. It struck home just how little he knew of his background.

The woman from his dreams he recognised straightaway. She caught his attention, by virtue of being the only one there with red hair. A black-haired man, with hazel eyes, and black-framed glasses, stood beside her, arm slung around her shoulder. Something seemed a bit…amiss…with that picture. The Lily Evans he knew hadn't seemed terribly fond of James, as if her death had created a huge gulf between them. Which made sense, in a way. If you were a god, and you married a mortal, and then both you and your mortal partner _died_, and you remembered that you were in truth a god….

Yes, there'd doubtless be a bit of surreality to it. A disconnect. A metamorphosis. But here, _this_ Lily Evans….

And he hadn't thought that his Dad wore glasses. It hadn't been a part of his imaginings. The messy black hair he could have predicted, but not the rest. And he couldn't have dreamt up the others, Lily's mum and dad, and James's, and various others (who knew who they were?).

Which might mean he hadn't dreamt up the other family, standing off to the left—the blonde woman in her ornate robes, smiling at him, the young man carrying the hammer, looking torn, but reaching out for him, anyway. And behind them, a man with an eyepatch, expression inscrutable, for the moment only watching.

And no matter how many times Harry told himself that he'd look away, he couldn't tear his eyes from _both_ families. He'd look from one to the other, trying to figure out how much reality there was to either of them, how he should react, what he ought to think.

He wished that he could reach through the mirror, join at least one of the families, in their respective worlds. Why couldn't they be real? They weren't real, were they?

He came back to the Tower late that night.

The next night, he made the mistake of taking Ron to the mirror with him. He should have known better; Ron was forever fretting over him, mother hen that Ron was. He should have known that Ron would pronounce the mirror "not good for" him, and tell him that he mustn't come back.

Ron stood before the mirror, and stared for a long time. His expression was, for once, difficult for Harry to read.

"Do you see them?" Harry asked, again.

"No," Ron said, his voice hoarse and harsh, his entire body trembling. He sat down, abruptly, on the floor, as his knees gave out under him. "I didn't see the people you described, Harry."

True.

"But you saw someone?" Harry prompted, trying to figure out what was going on.

"I saw…I saw _my_ family. Complete, as it should have been. And you were with us."

He turned to Harry, who swallowed, and backed away. Ron should be too young for that haunted, grieving look.

"Then… it shows us our families?" Harry asked, frowning, trying to puzzle it out. He pretended he didn't see Ron's expression, which might have been a mistake. Ron regained his footing, and stumbled over to Harry, to clench his hand tight around Harry's arm. There weren't many other things that could support Ron's weight lying about the room, so Harry winced, just once, and tried to ignore how tight Ron's grip _was_.

"_No_," he said, emphatic. "You saw people who are dead, in the mirror. My family was, also, completer than it should have been. Harry, I don't think this mirror is good for you…. I think you should stay away from it. It smacks of decay, of men lost to the madness of dying dreams. I have offered you a family, Harry, and that is an oath I mean to keep. Do you not trust me? But this, this mirror—it offers you what no man on Earth can deliver. Will you forsake, will you abandon your friends, your true family, for the fragments fashioned by a spell?"

Harry said nothing.

He walked back with Ron in silence, and the next night, he had to find a way to outlast Ron, despite his fatigue induced by nightmares, and sneak back to the Mirror. As if Thanos weren't bad enough, his dreams of green light had returned, joined by that high, cruel laugh he had heard resound from his memories when Hagrid had told him the truth about that Hallowe'en night, ten years gone. Ron took Harry's nightmares' resurgence as a sign that he was right about the mirror. Harry didn't care. He _must_ return.

It was after midnight before he was able to make his way back. Ron, usually early to bed, early to rise, had stayed up late, keeping a watchful eye on him. The mother hen.

Nothing next to his mother.


	14. Focus and Desire

**Chapter Fourteen: Focus and Desire**

He gave himself no reprieve before he found the classroom again, pushed the door open, and sat before the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all night.

But an image wasn't enough. It was as it had been when the dreams had begun, before they'd soured. He longed for that other life, that other world, that other family, who _loved_ him. The depth of his desire astonished him, how fervently he longed for even those whose names he couldn't even guess at. He reached out to touch the mirror, and the image changed. Lily and James stood near the front of the mirror, crying, laughing, waving, James with his arm around Lily's shoulder. Just as it had been last night, and the night before.

But as Harry's hand touched the glass—which was far too soft and warm to be metal or even stone—something _changed_. Lily shrugged off James's arm around her shoulder. He stood there, bereft, for a moment, and then gave a tight nod, and an encouraging smile. Frigga glanced their way, and then dissipated into smoke, as Lily Evans walked forwards, to reach up her hand, fingers splayed to touch each fingertip to Harry's own. Harry's heart pounded. The soft warmth against the pads of his fingers felt almost like…flesh.

If only he could reach through the mirror, and actually touch her. Or, if only she could leave the mirror. Lily cocked her head, and the position of her hand changed. She held it out, as she had to raise him from the floor, outstretched and opened.

Harry, without really thinking about it, reached through the mirror, and took that hand; as ice (or frost?) crept down his hand, onto hers, spreading down her arm, he feared that he'd harmed her, even though she was already dead, and past injury. Warmth, an answering fire, melted the ice, flowing down her arm, into her hands, into his, and down his arm. He didn't let go, and pulled her out of the mirror.

And only then did he think about the sheer impossibility of what he'd just done. He'd pulled an illusion, a mimicry, from its power source. Surely, she should have dissipated—smoke on the wind, as the myriad dreams he'd had, only to lose upon awakening.

But here she stood, still in her red-and-gold dress, but now looking much more transparent than she had in her proper world, with an aura of radiance, an image that seemed to flicker, now and then, less than completely there. But she was no longer in the mirror. He forgot about the mirror, almost, with his mother, hazy and transparent, but nonetheless _there_, in full colour. She _felt_ solid, as she bent down, to pull him into a crushing hug.

"M-_Mum_?" he asked, hardly daring to lift his eyes, lest she disappear. "Are you real?"

He'd asked Lily the same question in his dream, and her answer had been decidedly noncommittal.

"Well, that depends on how strictly you define that word," Lily answered, laughter in her voice. She sounded the same as his dream-mother, and Harry had a brief moment of madness, when he wondered if this Lily were also Frigga. Neither of them were in the mirror anymore. "I am all that I have ever been. That night, when I died, the protection I gave to you through sacrificing my life had the strange side effect of enabling me to live on in your blood. You are, after all, my _son_, my flesh-and-blood. But I am a little more even than merely the remnants of your mother's profound love for you. Everything there was that was truly _Lily Potter_, her soul, you might say, remained protected within yours."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, leant down, bending over him. Harry thought of how often Frigga had done the same, when imparting words of wisdom, to show him things. It was such a motherly thing to do. He swallowed, but focused on the warmth where her hand met his shoulder, as if that were the only reality that mattered in the world.

"Then…did I pull you from the mirror?" asked Harry, trying to figure out what had happened. The pressure on his shoulder increased.

"Turn from that mirror, my son. Seek for it no longer. It is unhealthy for you to dwell upon what cannot be changed. Seek out those dreams that can yet be fulfilled, and do not waste the rest of your life pining for what cannot."

She spun him away from the mirror, to where she still stood, behind him. Her expression was pained, and grave—drawn and haunted, he might say.

"You did not pull me from the mirror. You merely used the mirror as a channel. Do you remember what I once told you of magic—the most basic foundations of magic?"

He knew what she was saying—she was speaking of the first lesson Frigga had given him on magic, in the library, long ago—and, no matter how much he wished to shy from the thought, of all the _other_ that it dredged up, he closed his eyes, thought, remembered.

"Desire," he said, "and focus. Do you mean to say that I dragged you from the cabin in my dreams? That I could have at any time? Why did you not say it before, Mother?"

He couldn't keep the genuine hurt from his voice. In response, Frigga raised a hand, observing it, the way that light passed through it, before returning it to his shoulder.

"Yes," she said. "You pulled me from my cabin in the woods. And I further believe that you could have at any time. Yet, I must say that I am myself surprised. It did not occur to me that you might possess whatever power it is that you have used to drag me, even in this limited capacity, into the physical world. Your precocity has always impressed me, my son."

His mouth dry, he wondered how to take her words. Then, _this_ was really his mother? And _that_, the woman in his dreams? But, she'd confessed to being _Frigga_; that was who she was _right now_.

Surely, it couldn't be true. Or, perhaps, he just _needed_ for it not to be true.

He snuck a peek at the mirror, again, where James, and the unknown Potters and Evanses, and Thor, and Odin, still waited. He turned from them, to face his mother again. His heart was pounding.

"It can't be real," he muttered to himself, as if it were a mantra.

The word, _mantra_, prodded at him. A fragment of a dream urged him to caution. _The only way not to_—

Mother was here. She tensed, as if sensing the precarious position he was suddenly in.

"Loki?" she asked, which was both what needed to be said, and the very worst thing she could have said. He flinched.

"I'm not—"

"Why do you deny who you are?" Frigga demanded. "You ought to be proud of your identity. You always were before. You are a Prince of Asgard, a skilled mage, and warrior. None of those titles is cause for shame."

"I'm not Loki," Harry said, considering pushing her away, now. Why the fixation on this one matter? He wanted to set the past aside, real or not. "Loki wasn't a prince of Asgard, anyway," he said. "Just—just a stolen child, from another realm."

Frigga frowned, but stood her ground. She took his hand, an awkward enough thing for a boy accustomed to no one daring to touch him, unless it be whilst committing an act of violence. Only Ron and Hermione had touched him without hurting him (at least in the physical world) and it had taken forever before he could suppress the urge to _flee_, could stop flinching, and fidgeting. He knew that he still had a long way to go, and was certain that neither of them would give up on him until they'd undone as much as could be undone of the Dursleys' abuse.

Frigga brushed his hair out of his eyes, for once, recreating the younger prince's hairstyle. Harry suddenly wished he hadn't grown it out.

"A family is more than merely those to whom you are related by blood. You know better, as I am aware. Your Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley are your direct relations, but they are not your family, not as Odin and Thor were, and _are."_

"Might we not speak of other matters?" Harry begged, torn between trying to make the most of this strange blessing, his mother in the physical world, and trying to deny the rest—what he knew came of accepting her premise.

"This must be addressed _now_," said Frigga, voice firm. She sat down, and Harry found that the abandoned chairs off to the sides of the room had repaired themselves. She had let go of him to sit, and he, hesitant, nevertheless sat on another of the old wooden chairs. He needed for this to be a cherished memory, one that helped him stave off life's cruelties. The sooner he humoured her, the sooner, perhaps, they could move on to other topics.

"Tell me, my son, why do you deny who you are?"

Silence. Harry gathered his thoughts. This couldn't be avoided, could it?

"My sons were both honourable, skilled, and smart. Thor's impulsive nature was often cause for concern, but I never feared for him as long as _you_ were with him. You were the second son I always had desired. There was no one I trusted more to look after him."

She sighed, her expression distant, as she stared back in time, perhaps to the long-ago era when the family had been happy, and close-knit.

"'Honourable'?" repeated Harry, when he couldn't stand it anymore. "Trustworthy? Mother, he killed a bunch of people, tried to take over the world, and destroyed downtown New York!"

He threw his hands in the air, as if mimicking the explosion that might have happened but for Stark's quick thinking.

Lily leant back into her chair. "Ah. Then, that's it. You seek to deny the later years—the battle in New York, the attack of the Dark Elves, the assault on Jotunheim. And, perhaps, to drive off your memories of suffering at the hands of Thanos?"

Time seemed to stand still. Harry forgot to breathe. He wasn't sure if he'd given any physical indication of his reaction, but he was fairly sure that his face had lost all colour.

"Where—where did you hear—?"

"The Sorting Hat looks through your mind, heart, and soul, when it sorts you. I heard more than was intended, for it never found me there. I heard what it said to you."

She reached out for him, and he eyed her hand warily, as if it had teeth. But…this was his _mother_.

"As the full embodiment of Lily Evans, and as your mother, it is vital that I am aware of all threats to your safety. What I have learnt afterwards is from what I have found of that corner of your mind. There is little that I am able to do to assist you in your endeavour, for which I must apologise to you, my son. But, from what I have heard, the effects of Thanos are rooted in his mastery over the Infinity Stone of the Mind. Perhaps, then, your actions were not entirely your own."

Harry's heart was now pounding so loudly it felt as if he were drowning, the roar of it filling his ears, making it hard to hear even her words.

"Yet, even though you made mistakes, it is plain that you regret them now. And it is the nature of family to love one another even despite their shortcomings. Odin might have disappointed you, might have failed you, but do not doubt that he loved you, too, even as I do. Even as Thor does. Have you forgotten how valiantly Thor strove to save you from yourself, during those events you mentioned?"

She leant forwards, towards him, and managed to clasp his hands, to intertwine her fingers with his own.

Were her fingers actually that warm, or was it the frost still coating Harry's? How could you continue to deny such a thing, given _that_ evidence?

Harry swallowed. He tried to muster a scoff, thought better of it, recalling his own thoughts about Loki's ingratitude, how little he appreciated his comparatively charmed life.

"Indeed, one of your greatest shortcomings is that you have always underestimated the depths of other people's love for you. You have always underestimated Thor's love for you, as you have underestimated him."

"If Thor loves me _so_ much," Harry said, unable to restrain himself any longer, "then where is he? If he never gave up on me, then why has he forsaken me, now?"

_He swore an oath_, Harry thought, but he didn't say it aloud. No sense adding fuel to the fire. Something kindled in Lily's eyes, as she looked at him. A strange mirth.

"Perhaps, my son, you have truly underestimated his resourcefulness. Perhaps your brother is not as far distant as you believe."

He could not convince her to elaborate.

Something about her argument settled over him as a balm, as if she had somehow changed the way he viewed Loki. He knew that Thanos had broken Loki, had tortured him both physically and mentally, but somehow, the only thing that had seemed important was that, in the end, Loki had broken, betrayed Asgard, and tried to conquer the world. But Lily-Frigga seemed to feel otherwise. She seemed to feel that everyone else had failed Loki, instead.

He couldn't understand, but…somehow, hearing it from her perspective, the tension, the aversion, the denial began to seep away. In part, it was that he didn't like to think of himself as a coward. In part, it was her carefully laid out explanation of her knowledge of how his continued connection to Thanos must have affected him, then and now. The information of his dreams supported her argument. Was it possible that Harry had been too hard on Loki?

That fog, the fog of shame, lifted, leaving behind it the continued dread of Thanos, which would doubtless remain as long as Thanos still lived, as the only irrational barrier against his old dilemma of identity.

The only rational argument against it was that only his dreams suggested that there were any reality to their connection, and now a woman who claimed to be from those self-same dreams.

But he set aside such thoughts for later, content to just walk and talk with his mother, as she led him back to Gryffindor Tower for the night, urging him to think more on everything she had said.

He could bring her back. The magic that had brought her from his dreams into the physical world had all come from within. He could do it. He'd find a way, but—

There was still a living Frigga out there, somewhere. That would complicate things.

Unless the dreams weren't real—and suddenly, he fervently wished they were, again. He wanted to see them all again, to speak with them all. Even Odin. Even Thor.

_Perhaps he has fooled even you_, the memory of his mother's voice teased, not even trying to hide the humour she found in the thought. And, _perhaps your brother is not as far distant as you believe_.

Was she saying that Thor was _here_? On Midgard? Or…even in the Wizarding World? Even at _Hogwarts_? The idea was preposterous, and yet…somehow, it gave him strength. If Thor were here, in Hogwarts, or even on Midgard, looking for him, despite having no reason to think that he might find him here…well, it went much further to proving that he genuinely cared about his little brother, didn't it? Horrendously sappy, but somehow heartwarming, too.

That night, his dreams were devoid of both sorts of nightmares, and he sensed that it was due, at least in part, to a barrier erected by his mother.

He awoke much later than he'd intended, feeling exhausted, and came to the realisation that, however he'd managed to pull his mother out of her cabin in the woods, it had left him utterly drained. His magical reserves were almost perilously low, despite the duration of his sleep. It was a dangerous, tiring thing, pulling her into the waking world. Even that brief span of time had consumed all his reserves. He would have to be very careful, and spend a great deal of time and effort building them up.

Ron seemed to know exactly what had happened the night before, ambushing him as he left the common room. Mother hen. Harry at last sighed, and said,

"Yes, yes, I understand that the mirror is dangerous. I'm staying well enough away from it from now on. You needn't worry, _Mother_."

He was too tired, even now, to properly argue with someone. Ron was still fretting and overprotective, and difficult to shake, but Harry spent most of his day in the common room, studying. Then, he wandered off, the moment Ron didn't seem to be watching, to hang out by the lake, practicing older magic than was taught in Hogwarts, improving his meagre magical reserves through use. There was little he could do, drained to the dregs as he was. When Ron demanded to know whether or not he'd returned to the mirror, he sighed, huffed, and told him to mind his own business, but that he'd been outside, if Ron must know.

Ron folded his arms, and stared Harry down. "Without a coat?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "I'm used to the cold. The Dursleys never bought me any winter clothes, or even gave them to me as hand-me-downs."

And then, Ron was temporarily too busy plotting ways to get the Dursleys arrested, or something, to pay too much attention to what Harry might be doing. Although he probably would have been called out of his thoughts by Harry leaving the portrait hole, if Harry _had_.

After that, the next noteworthy event was, of course, the dream of the last night of the year. Lily had appeared, in her cabin in the woods, although Harry had stayed awake past midnight to usher in the New Year. Ron had, by then, stopped watching him like a hawk, as if realising that he wouldn't suddenly up and vanish.

Lily in his dreams corroborated what the Lily he'd pulled from the mirror had said. They were one-and-the-same, and when the woman he'd seemed to pull out of the mirror had vanished, it had been only to return to her cabin. Harry had, at long last, caved, and confided in her about Thanos. Once or twice, he pestered her to tell him more about the whereabouts of Thor, and why she had said what she had, but, aptly enough, she kept Mum.

Hermione returned from holidays, and set to reviewing the previous semester's courseload, as well as reading over what would be covered this semester. Harry had better things to do, reviewing all the magic lessons that Frigga had given Loki, and all that Loki had figured out on his own, besides. He was determined to build up his magical reserves, which had probably expanded quite a bit over the decade he'd spent over the Dursleys, out of sheer necessity. How often had he used magic, unknowing, to save himself from dangerous situations?

Quidditch practice started up, again, with Oliver Wood seeming to feel the need to make up for lost time, grilling them endlessly, and pulling them out in the cold and the wet, because "quidditch matches are never called on account of a little weather". The entire team groaned, but bore it. Wood was in his fifth year, which apparently was a cause of great stress—he had to take important end-of-year exams called "O.W.L.s", and quidditch was his outlet.

Percy, while also in fifth year, was much more focused on his schoolwork, prefect duties, and studying for his O.W.L.s, and could barely even be dragged outside to watch the games. But Ron, or the Twins, would insist, and out he'd come with the rest of the school, and lose himself in the match, just as most everyone else.

Quidditch practice was a good distraction from the mirror, at least.


	15. Dragon Malfoy

**Chapter Fifteen: Dragon Malfoy**

It was Neville who had revealed to them where Harry had heard of Flamel: on the back of a Chocolate Frogs card. He'd found it amongst his Christmas gifts, eventually, and had shown the trio, and Hermione had lit up with excitement, bounding up to the girls' dormitory, and returning with a tome half again as tall as she was, which she called "light reading". For once, Harry shared Ron's incredulity at her choice of description. Still, her recitation of the book's entry on Flamel told them all they needed to know. The Philosopher's Stone was so legendary that Harry was fairly sure that even _Loki_ had heard of it. A stone that granted its user immortality, and infinite wealth? With those two things, you might almost take a place amongst Asgard's folk….

Well, not really— there was a lot more that that entailed, but there remained the fact that this Nicholas Flamel, who, as a friend of Dumbledore's, must be _real_, was several centuries old. It was an odd, odd thought.

"Then, that's what the three-headed dog is guarding. That's what was in Vault 713," Harry had said, and the three of them had turned over the details again.

Harry was, however, beginning to doubt Snape's innocence. After the match, he'd made the mistake of following Snape into the forest, where he'd seemed to be threatening Quirrell. No, he'd _definitely_ been threatening Quirrell. The real question was: who was the good guy, and who was the bad guy?

"Have you figured out how to get past that three-headed dog of Hagrid's, yet?" sounded the sort of question an evil overlord asked of a minion, something with which Harry was painfully familiar. It made Snape highly suspect. But his mother was _sure_ that Snape wasn't evil. She'd told him they'd been childhood friends.

Harry didn't know what to think. Hermione seemed triumphant, exultant in having been right all along. Ron seemed to have decided to sit this argument out.

And then, Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback drove such thoughts from all of their minds.

It started with Hagrid sneaking into the library where they were doing research together at a table near the back.

"What's that you lot are doing?" Hagrid asked, arousing plenty of suspicion by trying to hide what books he was carrying from everyone. "Here, now, you're not still looking for Nicholas Flamel, are you?"

"Oh, no, we found out what Fluffy was guarding _ages_ ago," Hermione said, beaming. "What are you looking for?"

"It's a secret," Hagrid said, bending over to lean close to them, the less easily to be overheard. "Come by my house later, and I'll explain."

And he left without further explanation. "Hold on," Ron said, setting aside his books. "I think I'll take a look at the section he got all those books from."

He strode off, and returned to their desk, slamming volumes down before them. "I don't believe it. He's looking for information on _dragons_. Look: _From Egg to Inferno: The Dragon Hatcher's Guide_… _Native Breeds of Britain_. "

Harry sighed. His head met the smooth wood of the desk with a satisfying smack. "He _did_ tell me that he always wanted a dragon, the day we met. Perhaps, he finally got his hands on one."

* * *

But, of course, he'd done worse than that. He had a genuine _dragon egg_. It sat in the hearth, wreathed in flames, and sending the temperature of the house to "boiling". Harry cleared out. There were some things he couldn't put up with, even for his friends, and he half-suspected that he might _melt_, if exposed to too much heat. Perhaps he was giving his dreams too much credence, or perhaps not. He wasn't risking it, either way. He had little recourse but to let his friends attempt to talk Hagrid out of the dragon. "But Hagrid, you live in a _wooden house_," he heard Hermione cry, clearly at a loss as to what more she could say.

When the egg had hatched, and he could return to Hagrid's house without risking melting, he decided that he'd do everything he could to convince Hagrid to part with the beast.

To complicate matters, Draco Malfoy overheard a conversation they had on whether or not to ditch class to witness the egg hatching (Ron was all for the idea; Hermione was arguing that that would be highly irresponsible, naturally), and therefore _also_ witnessed the hatching dragon egg. The looming threat of what Malfoy would do with his newfound blackmail material loomed over their heads, as Harry at last braced himself, and entered Hagrid's house, to make his case for Hagrid letting the dragon (whom Hagrid had named "Norbert") go.

"Hagrid," he said. "I don't suppose we might open a window and let some of this hot air out?"

It was still quite stifling in the shack, naturally; Hagrid seemed terrified that if the temperature dropped below that in which the dragon egg had hatched, Norbert would freeze. Weren't dragons supposed to be mountain-dwelling creatures?

Hagrid remained indecisive. "Well…I don't know…" he said. "Norbert's still so young…this winter cold might kill him."

Harry latched onto that. "Hagrid," he pointed out, "do you really want to keep a wild animal locked up in a human home for its entire life? Does that seem fair to him? And that's only if he doesn't grow anymore…Ron, you know a little about dragons. How big do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow?"

Ron turned to face him, which was very nearly a costly mistake; as the boldest of the trio, he'd been keeping Norbert occupied by playing keep away with an old shoe, but he'd glanced over to Harry to address him. "As big as a house, by the time they're a year old," he said, his tone grim. Harry couldn't fault him for redirecting his focus back onto the dragon even as he spoke.

"Do you hear that?" asked Harry, cocking his head. "As big as a _house_. Hagrid, you could never hide _that_. Hermione, open the window, please."

Hermione was already on the job before he finished his sentence. Hagrid sat down abruptly, with a solid, graceless _fwump_.

"I know, I know…but he's still so small and tiny. He'd die out there, on his own."

"There are worse things out there than death," Harry said darkly. Ron shot him another glance, as if trying to gauge whether he needed to drag Harry out of dangerous thoughts, again, but Harry wasn't currently heading into dangerous waters. He gave a small shake of his head, and turned back to Hagrid.

Loki was skilled at convincing people to do things. Let's see whether or not Harry could talk sense to Hagrid.

"Hagrid, I know you researched this topic as thoroughly as you could, but the fact is that dragon breeding has been illegal in the U.K. for so long that any material you might get your hands on would be far out-of-date. You don't have the expertise to take care of Norbert, not really. Suppose he injures himself, or is attacked by something in the Forbidden Forest? And even if he make it to adulthood, what then? Are you expecting him to live the rest of his life without companionship, except for you? A real parent knows when it's best to let go, and stop looking over their child's shoulder all the time."

Ron stiffened, as if he heard a second jibe in Harry's argument, which was, granted, rather intended. Ron needed to stop being such a mother hen.

"Well…I thought I might come across another egg…let him out in the Forbidden Forest. It's what I did with my pet acromantula, Aragog…."

Ron looked distinctly uneasy, and Harry shot him a curious look.

"Giant spiders," he explained, his voice a bit stiff. "The Twins played a prank on me with spiders when I was a toddler, and I've been afraid of them ever since—"

Harry tucked that information away, unable to imagine Ron afraid of _anything_, but turned to Hagrid.

"I'd let him go, but he's still so little…he'd die," Hagrid protested, looking out the window at the Forbidden Forest with eyes suspiciously bright. Harry sighed. This was worse than arguing with Thor.

He frowned, turning the matter over in his head. Hagrid's concern was that Norbert would die, because Hagrid knew about his existence, and knew how to care for him best of those who knew about him, but—

"Perhaps you might ask Dumbledore for assistance," Harry suggested, eyes fixed on a particularly interesting shape in the grain of the table. He traced over it with his finger as he spoke.

"No!" Hagrid said, eyes wide. "Dumbledore's a great man, but I can't get him on trouble on my account…and he'd be mad at me, too. Dragons are classified as 'dangerous creatures', and illegal to own or breed, see. He already got me out of trouble for having dangerous creatures once—"

Hagrid froze, and cut himself off abruptly. "Forget I said any of that!"

Ron looked as if he were about to prompt Hagrid for more information. He stood up, backing away from the dragon, and throwing the shoe across the room. Norbert raced after it, but Harry was already on his feet. He slammed a hand across Ron's mouth.

"Don't push it! This is our best chance of talking Hagrid out of this madness, but we'll miss our chance, and we'll lose all the progress I've made, if you start pestering him about what he just said. You know he'll throw us out, again."

Ron slumped, and Harry waited a few seconds as he formulated his next sentence, and then let go.

"All right, Hagrid. You can keep your secrets. But if we found someone _else_ who would take your dragon, no questions asked, would you be willing to give him up? Someone who knew what they were doing?"

"Charlie," Ron interjected, fixing Harry with a level stare, as if willing Harry to read his mind.

Charlie…Charlie…Charlie…that name should mean something to Harry, clearly, but who—?

Aha! Charlie Weasley, Ron's older brother!

"Charlie!" he cried, turning to Hagrid. "Charlie Weasley is a dragon tamer working in Romania. He'd have contacts who would know how to care for a Norwegian Ridgeback. Suppose we contacted them by Charlie?"

Hagrid hesitated. "I…I _suppose_ you could send them a letter seeing what had to be done, and if it sounded agreeable—"

"Wonderful!" Harry said, beaming. "Ron?"

"I shall send that letter tonight," said Ron, tearing the boot back out of the dragon's jaws. Hagrid's eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of Norbert's potential departure, or perhaps the inch-long teeth that were sinking into his boot.

* * *

"Hagrid," Harry said, eyeing Norbert's crate with misgiving. "If we get into trouble, I reserve the right to tell Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore about all of this."

Hagrid agreed that that was understandable, given that he didn't want to risk any of them being expelled for just being his good friends.

It fell to just him, Ron, and Hermione to transport the small crate under Harry's new invisibility cloak, and it wasn't an ideal plan, but what could you do? _What would Thor do?_ Harry asked himself, as he lifted the crate with Ron's help. Thankfully, the dragon was still fairly small, or it would never have fit under even the voluminous folds of the cloak. The plan was simple: meet Charlie's friends at the top of the Astronomy Tower, deliver Norbert to them, and then sneak away to the Gryffindor Common Room. By now, they were certain that the portrait-guardian of the Tower wasn't about to tell on them. That was just about the safest part of their plan. They just had to get that far.

Ron was protesting that he was fine, but the fact was that Norbert had bitten him as they were trying to force the nevertheless-quite-large dragon into its crate. Harry sort of regretted volunteering Ron for the job, but Ron was smothering, and by far the most reckless of the three of them. He needed the least convincing. He really hoped that Norbert's teeth weren't poisonous, especially since Ron had been bitten the day before, also.

The beginning of the plan went off without a hitch. On their way to the Astronomy Tower, they saw Professor McGonagall pulling Draco Malfoy along in a torrent of stern words— something about how Harry Potter smuggling a dragon out of Hogwarts was just an excuse for being out after curfew, and that she was going to have words with Professor Snape.

Hermione claimed to be so happy that she could sing, but then she sobered as the question of how Malfoy knew of the top-secret delivery occurred to her.

"Then, it was he who _stole_ the letter from Charlie," said Ron, and Harry grimaced, remembering that morning's frantic search for the letter. He must have taken it at lunch, the sneak. It had given him just enough time to be a potential hazard underfoot, but that danger was gone now—so long as Hermione _didn't_ sing!

But they made it to the top of the tower without incident, handed off the dragon, pulled back on the cloak, and descended the long flight of steps, to find Snape harassing Neville at the bottom. That did not sound good. How had Neville gotten tied up in all this?

Beneath the folds of the cloak, the Trio glanced at one another. None of them _liked_ hearing Snape rip into Neville, but when he heard the mention of the word "dragon", Ron seemed to realise what was going on, and, before Harry could make a move to stop him, he threw off the invisibility cloak to rush to Neville's aid. Harry gave Hermione a long-suffering glance, and, with the command that Hermione stay hidden, and return the cloak to Gryffindor Tower, he slipped out from under it, himself, wondering as he did why he had to have such impulsive friends (read: Ron and Neville).

Ron had already managed to get into a heated argument with Snape, one which he was, naturally, losing. Snape's words were oily and slick, they slipped through the cracks in a man's defences and shut them down. Ron was brave enough to pit himself against Snape, but he didn't have the acerbic wit required to match him.

Unfortunately, _Harry_ did. Perhaps even _more_ unfortunately, Professor McGonagall came around the corner just then, continuing her rounds. She took one look at the three gryffindors, and visibly pronounced them guilty on the spot.

"Excuse me, Severus. However, as these students are all in _my_ house, perhaps I might be trusted to decide upon their punishment."

By this, Snape understood that the three of them would, indeed, be punished, although Neville had done nothing wrong save for being out after curfew. He swept away from the trio with an ugly, triumphant sneer stretched across his face. Gloating is never pretty, but this one seemed particularly ugly.

McGonagall rounded on them. "My office. Now. Keep up." And she strode ahead of them. Neville took this opportunity to come up next to Harry and Ron, his head bowed, cheeks flushed. His lower lip was trembling, as if he were on the verge of tears.

"Harry," he said. "Ron. I'm really sorry. I learnt that Malfoy was trying to get you into trouble. He said you had a dragon, and—"

"'Had' is the right tense, too," Harry murmured. Neville stopped for a second, to stare at him, wide-eyed, before he had to run to catch up with them.

"Then…there really _was_ a dragon?" he asked. Harry bowed his head.

"_I'm_ sorry, Neville. We didn't want you involved in all of this. Perhaps we can explain better, later."

"Perhaps you had best explain better, _now_," said McGonagall, throwing open the door to her office, and holding it open to ensure that they all three sat down. Ron was suspiciously quiet, possibly because he was clutching the bitten hand. Sweat was rolling down his face, which was unusually pale. Harry suspected that he was much worse off than he'd previously let on, the idiot, and Harry'd been too preoccupied by other matters to notice. Bother.

"Professor, perhaps we might send Ron to the Hospital Wing, first?" Harry asked. Ron used some of his scarce energy to glare at Harry. It was not a very strong glare, especially given that Ron was capable of death glares.

"Hagrid had a Norwegian Ridgeback. Apparently, they're venomous. And Ron's been bitten twice. Please, let us take him to the Hospital Wing, and I promise that I'll explain everything, then."

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes at them, and Neville held his breath. The pain was apparently severe enough that Ron didn't even notice her intense scrutiny, and her expression softened, just a little.

"I will not keep you long, in that case," said McGonagall. "Four students, out after curfew on one night! I can't remember the last time I saw such a thing! What have you to say in your defence?"

He refused to acknowledge the fact that her claim that she had never seen such a thing was a lie—there were more important matters at hand. Harry sighed, glanced at Ron, wishing he knew at least a little about healing, and wondered if McGonagall could seriously believe that Ron were faking this all. Or, perhaps, she knew that Ridgeback poison wasn't that dangerous, and was trying to make a point. That was what the Dursleys would do.

He decided to make the story brief.

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon. A couple of weeks ago, he invited us over, after we'd caught him researching dragons in the library. We got to see the dragon hatch. Unfortunately, so did Malfoy. For the next couple of weeks, we tried to convince Hagrid to let 'Norbert', go, but he always had some sort of excuse. He didn't want him to die out in the wild, didn't want to trust Dumbledore for some reason we didn't press. At last, I was able to convince him to let Norbert go with some dragon experts that we sort-of knew. We promised we'd keep quiet until the dragon was gone, and there was no longer proof that he'd committed a crime. I don't blame him for being wary, but it does leave us in a bit of a predicament."

McGonagall sighed, and rested her forehead in her right hand. "…I see. Thank you for being honest with me, Mr. Potter. It is very admirable of you to attempt to assist your friends, and to take their needs into consideration every step of the way as you did. However…."

Yes, that "however" had been inevitable. "You _ought_ to have told an adult, and received outside help. What the three of you did was incredibly dangerous. I'm sure that Miss Granger was involved, although she at least had the sense to stay out of your ridiculous plan to sneak a _dragon_ out of Hogwarts. Did you truly expect not to be caught?"

Harry shrugged, trying to draw her attention away from Hermione, lest someone (i.e. _Ron_) give away that she had, in fact, been out after curfew.

"I think that I had better take fifty points from Gryffindor, as a lesson."

"_Fifty_ points, professor?" asked Neville, gasping. McGonagall's nostrils flared.

"Fifty points _each_. _Never_ have I been so ashamed of gryffindor students, for your recklessness. _And_ you will each have detention, Friday night. Perhaps then, you will take your schooling more seriously."

_One hundred and fifty points_? That was unheard of. All of Gryffindor would _hate_ them, now….

She let them wander off to the Hospital Wing, in a daze. Hermione greeted them in stoic silence by the entrance to the common room. She straightaway noticed Ron's absence, question in her eyes. Harry couldn't bear to tell her just what had happened.

Well, he supposed that was what he got for trying to be like Thor. Perhaps he should stick to being like Loki.


	16. The Immediate Aftermath

**Chapter Sixteen: The Immediate Aftermath**

He hadn't been able to resist the ready opportunity to spy on Professor Quirrell, however, when it presented itself. He resolutely walked away… after much mental deliberation, when it was plain that he would learn no more (after Quirrell had run away from the abandoned classroom, and several minutes had passed, indicating that he was not liable to return). But, with the upcoming detention being the only distraction, Harry found his mind trying to connect dots almost despite himself.

_Perhaps I should enlist to be one of Fury's spies_, he thought glumly to himself. _McGonagall saw fit to punish Ron, Neville, and me with ostracism-cum-unpersoning. And what do I do? I make __**use**__ of my sudden non-existence._

He was taking it much better than Ron, who, as the youngest of six sons, second-youngest child of seven, was used to being overlooked, but not _ignored_. The rejection of Fred and George, particularly, seemed to bother him; whilst Percy was rather haughty and holier-than-thou, and his presence even _Ron_ found stifling, his sanctimonious attitude combined well with his arrogance and gracelessness, making him the sort who looked down his nose at Ron, rather than shunning him, or constantly telling him off, as Harry had expected.

The Twins, on the other hand, had disowned Ron. The entire quidditch team had taken to referring to Harry by only his position on the team: "The Seeker", and the Twins had extended this in an organic way to refer to Ron: they followed the quidditch team's lead by talking _around_ Ron, rather than to him, and when forced to speak of him, did so only in the most indirect ways: the disappointment Weasley, the youngest Weasley boy, and, perhaps the worst: "that red-head who lost so many points". When people tried to connect the two of them, the Twins fiercely denied any relation, familial or otherwise, between them and Ron. Harry thought they were going rather far, but _everyone_, the entire school, had been looking forward to the prospect of Slytherin not winning the house cup, which it had won for seven years running (mostly because Snape was unfair?).

Harry reconsidered liking the Twins. Whilst accustomed to such treatment from the Dursleys, he nevertheless didn't appreciate it here, in Hogwarts, which had already become the closest thing he had to a "palace on Earth". And Ron, he knew, was used to, if not always being given the attention and respect he deserved, being nevertheless never shunned, never ignored, never forsaken. Whilst Hermione worked desperately to replenish the points they had lost, both because she was their friend, and because she could have easily shared their fate, Harry stuck to Ron like glue. He had no idea how Ron would react to actual neglect, and didn't much want to find out. The answer, as if seemed, was "very badly".

He, Ron, and Neville would make their way out of this, would make their way through this, together. For once, his time at the Dursleys was preparing him better for his current lot in life than anyone else was. He did his best not to let Ron out of his sight, nor Neville. He repaid Neville's kindness by keeping an eye on him to make sure that no one picked on him. It was just as well, because Malfoy, whose status as Slytherin overlord was not in the slightest bit tarnished by recent events, took every opportunity he could to taunt Neville, and to try to goad Ron into a fight, knowing that it would cost them more points. And Ron, for all that he worried and fretted over Harry, seemed unable to resist a challenge. The infamous Malfoy-Weasley feud couldn't possibly help matters, nor could Ron's alienation from his family.

Harry secretly questioned whether McGonagall weren't trying to get rid of them, one way or another. The sentence she'd handed down to them was the social equivalent of an execution. And whilst Harry would never be the social butterfly… people usually _liked_ Ron. To have people go out of their way to snub him was about as usual as Snape handing out candy.

"It will all blow over, soon enough," Hermione said, her tone bracing. "Haven't you said that Fred and George have lost loads of points?"

"Not all at once, though," Ron said, head bowed, as he stared at the chessboard. Apparently, the reminder that he still was really good at chess helped to take some of the edge off his inability to throttle Malfoy. Hermione bore it with something that resembled goodwill.

"Still, it makes them something of hypocrites, doesn't it?" asked Harry, turning the page in the textbook he was studying rather than watching Ron trounce Hermione in chess. "I mean, if they've lost more points than we, despite there only being _two_ of them, and they profess not to care about points, then why do they still behave thus? Family shouldn't turn its back on one another."

His left hand was still clutching a quill, for easy access, which gave him an excuse to clench it into a tight fist. Ron glanced up at him, and then back at the chessboard. He wondered just how tight his voice had grown, talking about family. It wasn't a subject he often discussed, it being a sensitive one on any side of the equation.

"_I'm_ used to it, but Ron, you _do_ realise that, for once, my experience comes in handy, don't you?"

"It is my responsibility to look after _you_—" Ron began. Harry scoffed, and folded his arms. Let's have a debate, shall we? He knew he could win any of those against Ron. Almost any.

"Hardly," he said. "We can look after each other. You're only twelve, I'm only eleven, but we can still watch _one another_'s backs. Or I could repay your favour by smothering you as you've been smothering me."

To be fair, Ron had toned that down quite a bit after Harry had vented at Hagrid. Of course, it hadn't been that long, and Ron was rather out of sorts.

There was an unusually long pause, here. It was so lengthy, in fact, that Harry set aside his book, about to get up to see whether Ron hadn't been petrified, or something. But, at last, he said, in a rather subdued voice, "Yes. I suppose we might do that."

Which came in useful when the next day, the day before the night of their joint detention, Malfoy cornered them both in the halls; with his flunkies cracking knuckles on either side, there was no non-violent means of escape, and Ron was raring for a fight, anyway. He'd become the equivalent of dry brush just waiting for a stray spark. But Harry had also been goaded and prodded all week, and he'd had about as much as he could take from Malfoy, too. Perhaps he'd done with holding Ron back. To add fuel to the metaphorical fire, the Twins had recently pranked Ron, putting his hair long and in curlers. Harry sensed a reference to something he'd never heard of, and of which he hoped to remain blissfully unaware. Ron had tried rather desperate measures to get rid of the curlers, but he'd been accurate with his description of the Twins on the train: they _were_ clever.

Cue Malfoy's sardonic jibes.

"Well, look who's here. Having a spot of trouble with your family, are you? Well, I can't blame them—you're the sorriest of a sorry lot. I suppose they finally were smart enough to realise how many mouths they had to feed, and realised that they might have more money if they had fewer children—"

Harry had been holding Ron back, but now he cocked his head to the side, considering. Yes, he decided, Malfoy had definitely gone on long enough.

He stepped forwards, noting Ron's stance. Furrowed brow meant confusion. Folded arms, but loose posture. Ron knew he was doing something against Malfoy, but not what. Just as well. His confusion owing to his ignorance as to what Harry was doing might mean that he was drawn into whatever ensued as well, but Harry was past caring.

"Well, I must say that's one area in which I prefer the Malfoys," Harry said, in an over-the-top pleasant voice. "Your parents, for all their faults, clearly realised their mistake in having you, and decided to go easy on the universe. You are, after all, an only child, same as I, but whilst my parents might have more children after me, until they were killed—but I'll skip _that_ part, I know it bores you.

"I suppose, as you're a pureblood, they must have decided that trivial things such as manners and basic decency weren't worth the colossal effort it would have taken to teach you. I can't help respecting how quickly they realised you were incorrigible and too stupid to learn something so basic that most five-year-olds have it down."

Malfoy was already starting to steam at the ears, but Harry had yet to provoke him to the first blow, which showed some restraint. Ron was leaning back and watching, looking torn between admiration and concern. Typical Ron.

"I think it's kind of funny—the person you remind me of the most is also the sort of person you profess to most despise. He's my muggle cousin, see, Dudley. He's blond, like you, and stupid, and rather tubby—"

Harry wasn't sure quite which remark had pushed Malfoy over the edge, but it didn't matter. "_And_ you've decided to take up his favoured 'sport' of tormenting me and punching me! Bravo! Yes, I think you'd really hit it off…."

Either he was naturally very good at taking a punch, or he had—one way or another—acquired an Asgardian level of durability. He didn't even know which direction he was leaning towards in answer to such questions, anymore. He did know that, although Malfoy was actually throwing all the punches (until Ron, of course, got involved, which, to be fair to him, was _after_ Crabbe and Goyle), and he had the reflexes to dodge most of them, he seemed to have the strength to take Malfoy's hits.

And Crabbe's and Goyle's, although, they were a bit like Dudley—slow, stupid, but strong.

Harry was _very_ careful not to fight back. It was unfortunate that he'd yet to find any purely defensive spells in his repeated excursions into the library. He didn't know what Ron was looking for there, but he guessed it wasn't defensive spellwork, or he'd have used some of those by now. As for Neville…he was probably researching plants.

"Potter! Malfoy! Weasley! Stop that childish bickering at once. My office, the lot of you! Move!" McGonagall's loud, carrying voice broke through the noise of the fight. Once again, McGonagall led him through the corridors at high speed, not pausing for anyone.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were sent back to their Head of House with a stern recommendation for further punishment, and then McGonagall stared down at Harry and Ron.

"Explain yourselves," she said, her voice crisp, filled with the no-nonsense Harry and Ron already knew to expect.

Harry explained. Or at least, he gave a twisted version of events that was nonetheless accurate. He told her what Malfoy had said of his parents back on the train, how they'd been ostracised from gryffindor, until, with no other viable outlet, Ron was champing at the bit, and Harry was tired of Malfoy always being able to say and do whatever he pleased. He made clear that this could have been avoided, and that Ron wouldn't have lost his temper so easily, were it not for their social execution.

"I never go back on my punishments, Mr. Potter. And, while I suppose Mr. Malfoy was the first to start one, it takes two to fight. Detention, for both you and Mr. Weasley. Separate detentions. And don't forget you have a joint detention tonight!"

But she didn't make things worse by taking points, too, so Harry bit his tongue, and said nothing.

Harry noticed, as they were walking back to the common room following their sentencing, that Ron somehow managed to be much more cheerful than usual, as if he actually got some sort of battle high from the rush. Harry rolled his eyes before turning to him.

"You fight well," Ron commented, in the cheeriest voice Harry had ever heard from him, leaving Harry so stunned he stopped walking for a while, and had to jog to catch up.

"Wh-what?"

"You have an admirable defense. Even with the fight joined, three against two, you suffered few injuries."

Harry shrugged. "Practice. I told you that I could look after myself," he said, his voice sounding a bit more ragged than usual, but anymore, the thoughts of Thanos were never far behind the experience of pain.

"Are you badly injured?" Ron demanded at once, catching the weariness Harry was trying to suppress.

"_No_. You _just_ said that I fought well, and _I_ told you that I could defend myself. It's only…" he sighed, knowing that Ron would probably not leave him alone until he understood. "I think of…you know…_him_, anymore. It's such a minor injury, and yet…."

Ron's hands were tightly clenched, and he stared straight ahead, expression dark and foreboding.

Now was probably the closest thing Harry would get to a perfect opportunity to warn Ron about what the Sorting Hat had said. The subject was already in the air, and Ron seemed to be otherwise in a good enough mood to bear it well. Perhaps he'd have some guidance on the matter.

Such an opportunity would doubtless rarely come again.

* * *

The next step in Harry's grand plan to fix everything was to find out what was wrong with the Twins. Their attitude was abysmal, and they had no leg to stand on. The rest of the gryffindor team ignoring him he understood, and the Twins shunning him he also understood (sort of), but their rejection of Ron…no, that had to be fixed.

He waited until Ron was asleep, upstairs in the boys' dorms, before approaching the Twins, with a friendly smile. He ignored their mutters to their friend, Lee Jordan, the commentator for quidditch, as Harry approached.

"Hello, Fred and George!" he said. "I would like a word with you."

The two of them tried to stand, only to find themselves held down in their seats. Harry had been watching them for the past week, and pranksters they might be, but creatures of habit they also were. They would not be leaving those seats until Harry released them from the spell, which was quasi-Asgardian magic, but they didn't need to know that. It wasn't as if they'd bothered to get to know Harry after he'd made the team—not even before Norbert, and the loss of over a hundred points at once.

"We aren't listening," said one of the Twins. Lee Jordan huffed, rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, and then stood up, giving Harry a nod. Not of approval, nor concession. It was more as if he'd just decided something. He left the Twins to Harry, which was what Harry wanted, anyway. He wasn't about to question it; he'd had enough bad luck, lately.

"That's no good. I'm not even here on my own behalf. I'm not here as a messenger, either. Ron's told me that you're the best pranksters in the school."

No response. They weren't going to make this easy for him. Perhaps he should shift tactics.

"Well, then I suppose you're of no use to me. I don't need you to talk to me, or to assist me. I'm not sure I want to associate myself with anyone with so little House Spirit, or family loyalty."

"Oi! Watch your mouth!" said the other twin, once more attempting to rise from his seat. "We're not cowards! And family is—"

"—So important that you've decided to deny Ron, just because he's lost fifty points against the house? I've heard you've made some _spectacular_ losses. I wonder how the house reacted to you, then."

The first twin looked speculative, leaning onto the table before him, hands clasped. They were off in the corner, by themselves, and everyone knew better than to disturb them. If Harry decided he wanted to keep them up all night, no one would save them. They might as well hear him out, right?

And maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

"Look, I understand that you don't know or care about me. I get that you don't know Neville, either, although if you did, you'd know that he's shy, and awkward, and the least deserves your scorn, anyway, considering he was dragged into this only because he was trying to look out for Ron and me against Malfoy."

Twin Number One twitched at the name. "And I'm sure you don't care that Malfoy's been making Ron and my lives miserable. I just thought it highly hypocritical of you to reject Ron, without even bothering to learn his side of the story, all for losing a few points. Is that what family loyalty means to you? Treat me however you will; the idea that lost us so many points was mine, after all. But if you're going to snub Ron, I hope you'll at least be even-handed about it, and turn your back on Charlie, too—after all, the idea was his as much as mine. If you're that devoted to the idea of slytherin losing the House Cup. Personally, I'd think you'd worry more about Ron, and how he's holding up, what with how we've all got detention tomorrow, and Gryffindor House is treating us as if we're pariahs. And then, there's Ron's injuries to consider—"

"'Injuries'?" repeated the second twin. "No one told us—"

"I guess Norwegian Ridgebacks are venomous," said Harry, with an indifferent wave of his hand. "But, Ron didn't lose any limbs, so I suppose it's all alright…."

"'Norwegian Ridgebacks'?" the first twin repeated.

"Is there an echo in here?" asked Harry, rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying, I would think if you truly did have an ounce of family loyalty, you'd care more about your younger brother than points. But I know a lost cause when I see one—"

"No, you're right; we _have_ made some spectacular losses. Remember that time when we—"

"And Ron _is_ our younger brother, and we ought to have been looking out for him. I suppose you're right, anyway. There's always next year for the House Cup, but if Ron _dies_…."

Harry wondered what story the second twin had interrupted, but decided it was probably the sort of tale that he was "too young" to hear. Whatever that meant.

"Then you'll apologise to him, and stop shunning him the way the rest of Gryffindor is?" Harry asked, taking a step back.

They hesitated. Harry crossed his arms, and made an exaggerated gesture of tapping his finger against an arm.

"I suppose we _could_—" said one.

"—but what do we owe you for this advice?" the other one finished.

Harry uncrossed his arms, and pointed at one of them, at random.

"You owe me the easily repaid debt of not being such insufferable hypocrites to Ron, and maybe being decent to him, for once, combined with the much more difficult debt of _not telling anyone_ that you're doing this because I told you, or, indeed, mentioning this conversation at all."

The Twins stared. "…That's _all_?" one asked, at last. Harry had done with keeping track of who was who several exchanges ago.

Harry nodded, and turned to go.

"…I think we still owe you something. We'll see what we can do."

Harry had already left.

"Hmm. That kid's something else, isn't he, Fred?" asked one of the Twins. "Didn't even notice he'd spelled us—"

"Didn't ask for us to stop treating _him_ the way we've been treating ickle Ronniekins…."

"Yeah. Suppose he's a decent bloke, after all. Shame."

"Agreed, Fred. Seems he's prankster material, too. Hope we haven't burnt our bridges."

McGonagall might have been given nightmares if she'd seen the Twins' grins.


	17. What Would Thor Do?

**summary of author's note (on McGonagall):** McGonagall out-of-character? yes/no

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: What Would Thor Do?**

The night of their detention was overcast, which put everyone on edge as they exited the doors, long before they learnt that they were on duty in the Forbidden Forest, looking for whatever was killing unicorns. The stab of vindictive pleasure that Malfoy had, at least, not been able to elude detention as he had all other punishment, had long since gone.

Not even the fact that their detention was, ironically, overseen by Hagrid made Harry feel better about the situation. Malfoy went on in a panicked rush about werewolves in the forest, and attempted to wriggle out of punishment by invoking his powerful father. Ron rolled his eyes, and Hagrid grunted, looking decidedly unimpressed. He picked up a crossbow, and Fang's lead, thoughtlessly responding to Malfoy's jibe as he did.

"He'd tell you that's how it's done, at Hogwarts," Hagrid interrupted. And then he continued by saying that Malfoy could reject the detention, if he wanted to leave Hogwarts, and Malfoy shut up. Harry tried to smother a grin; Ron made no such effort. A fight threatened to break out between the two of them. But with Hagrid there, even Malfoy was wary of picking a fight.

The danger of their task hit them, full force, as they marched into the Forbidden Forest, Neville in the rear, displaying sensible prudence and caution. Ron, naturally, was at the fore, talking to Hagrid in a low voice. He sighed, as if in defeat, and came to stand back by Harry, as Hagrid turned back to issue instructions.

"Alright, you lot. We'll have two teams, to cover a wider search area. Fang will go with one group, and I'll watch the other. There's nothing that lives in this forest that will harm you if either of us are with you—"

"I'll take Fang!" Malfoy declared, tone triumphant.

"Alright, but I'll warn you, he's a coward," Hagrid said, with a shrug, handing over the end of the lead. "Now, as I was saying, there's something in the woods that's been killing unicorns. You're to keep your eyes peeled for the injured unicorn. Follow the blood—it sort of glows silver in the dark—and if you run into danger, or you find the unicorn, send up sparks, and we'll come over to where you are. So don't waste them, alright?"

Harry and Ron nodded, Neville giving a small wobbling of his head, up and down. Malfoy seemed to be ignoring Hagrid's words.

"Harry, Neville, you two are with me. Ron, keep an eye on Malfoy. And that ought to do it," Hagrid said, separating them into their respective groups with an almost businesslike efficiency.

Ah. He had the sense that that was what Ron had been doing—seeing if he and Harry couldn't be put in a team, together. He glanced over at Ron, intending to express somehow that he'd be _fine_ and Ron was smothering, again, but Ron wouldn't meet his eyes. Before the teams broke up, Ron came over to stand by him. He still wouldn't look at him.

"I dislike the sound of this task. As Hagrid said, unicorns are known for their purity of heart, and their speed. The creature able to catch one must be dangerous indeed. I sense…a greater threat lurks just beyond our knowledge. Be careful, Harry."

And then Malfoy and Ron went off into the woods, and Hagrid led Harry and Neville ahead. They hadn't gotten far before a rustling of branches presaged the arrival of centaurs. But the entire search party were twitchy and paranoid, looking for threats. Things might have gone badly—Hagrid had drawn his crossbow—but he lowered it, and Harry relaxed his battle stance, somewhat.

"Hello, Hagrid," said one of the centaurs, with blond hair, and blue eyes, and the body of a palomino. "Were you going to shoot us?"

Hagrid sort of grunted. "Hullo, Firenze. Nah, this is for protection. Can't be too careful."

The same centaur nodded, conceding the point.

"True. These _are_ dangerous times. What brings you into our forest?"

"Something's been killing unicorns," Hagrid said, bluntly. "We mean to find the injured one, and figure out what's been doing this—"

"Mars is bright tonight," said a second centaur, with black hair. Harry sucked in a gasp, thinking about it. He knew enough of Roman mythology to recognise the name of Mars as belonging to their god of war. That couldn't be good. He tilted his head back, but it was a bit difficult for his untrained eyes to pick out the red star from all the others in the heavens.

"And the others, accompanying you?" demanded the black-haired centaur, arms folded before him, showcasing powerful muscles. Posturing, a threat, a warning, but of a different sort.

Hagrid being Hagrid, he missed it.

"Students up at the school," he said, leaving the explanation simple.

"Students?" repeated the palomino-blond, his tone not quite conversational, but perfectly polite. "Do you learn much, up at the school?"

"Er—" Harry said, unsure how to answer that.

"We're not very far in, but we've already learnt some," Neville said, offering up a friendly smile, before ducking his head back down.

"A bit? That's something," said the centaur.

"Don't get too friendly with humans, Firenze," said the second centaur. Harry could sense the impending squabble, but Hagrid interrupted.

"Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately?"

"Mars is bright tonight," said the second centaur, again. "Unusually bright."

Hagrid missed the warning, again. Harry's heart was thudding.

"How long do we have to prepare, do you suppose? How bad will it be?" he asked.

The centaur stared at him. Then he came closer, tilting his head, analysing Harry. He took a step back, suddenly, and then another. His eyes narrowed.

"You will regret becoming involved in their affairs," he said. "And do not seek for to command us to reveal more than we offer. We worship the gods of Greece, and have had little to do with those of other realms. Know your place."

Oh. This again. Yay.

"What are you—?" Neville began.

"The stars do not measure time as mortal beings do. The map they provide has many twists and turns that must be navigated, branches in the stream of time. Tonight, a decision shall be made which affects the movement of the stars. And again, several months hence. Choose wisely, little lord. We centaurs have no love for the thing that lurks in the forest. We shall wish you good hunting, Hagrid, and good night."

They vanished with greater stealth than that with which they'd appeared.

"Never," Hagrid said, "try to get a straight answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers, not interested in anything nearer'n the moon. Still, they're decent about turning up when I want a word…."

"Did you understand what they were talking about, Harry?" asked Neville, hesitant. Harry was still trying to calm his racing heart, reminding himself that there were other sources of potential conflict than Thanos, and that the centaur had probably been talking about something more wizarding-specific, particularly since his dreams, if there were any reality to them, were set decades into the future.

"Mars is the Bringer of War," he said. "If his star is bright—doesn't that mean that another war is imminent?"

"Is that what he meant?" asked Hagrid, frowning. "Then why didn't he just say that?"

Harry shrugged. It was probably a matter of racial pride, that centaurs were the ultimate astrologers, and didn't much respect wizards (doubtless, with good reason). There was also the possibility that they thought they were being clearer and more direct than they were, and, of course, what the black-haired centaur had said about the future being a matter of variables, heavily influenced by the decisions people made, and by, quite possibly, the desire not to affect those decisions.

They continued on into the forest in silence, and Neville quietly asked, under the quiet tread of Hagrid's feet on dead leaves, "How much did you understand of what he was saying, Harry? If you don't mind my asking."

"I know that they didn't say much of importance. They seem to be a rather proud lot, but they're afraid of whatever's killing the unicorns, too, so they're tolerating us. And, of course, they warned us about the coming war. But, perhaps we could speak of this later."

They continued on in silence, Neville looking particularly drawn and pale in the dim moonlight streaming down.

Then, Harry felt it. He wasn't sure what it was he felt—perhaps whatever connection Ron had mentioned, in the beginning—but he knew that there was trouble, or rather, that Ron had gotten into trouble, again. He had the vague idea that things might go very badly if someone didn't intervene, and thus, without bothering to even alert Hagrid, he bolted through the forest, subconsciously shielding himself from the prying branches using magic he hadn't even studied, determined to move as fast as he could, without using any of the translated Asgardian magic he'd been working on. If Hagrid or Neville made a grab for him, he didn't notice. If they called out for him, he likewise had no knowledge of it.

_What would Thor do_? he'd asked himself, when the ineffable tension drew as taut as a bowstring. That was when he'd set off, taking a few cautious steps aside, until he was sure that he had enough of a headstart that it would take too long for the others to forge through the growth to stop him.

He still had to bat aside the occasional overhanging branch or twig, but he was small, and short, and for once these worked to his advantage. He didn't give himself the chance to realise that he had no way of knowing whither he was going, whether or not he was headed the right way, or just into danger. It was the most impulsive he'd been in his entire life, but he had the sense that, whatever was going on, it was crucial that he make it in time.

He didn't notice the increased tension in his scar, either.

He reached the particular small clearing in which Ron and Malfoy were currently going at one another, Malfoy using every dirty trick in the book, as far as Harry could tell. He'd used a few hexes that Harry recognised—the jelly-legs jinx, and a nasty one that seemed to inflict boils upon its victim. Then, there were other, less approvable spells, many of which had missed Ron (Most of the spells must have missed Ron, because it looked as if a tornado had come through the clearing, and possibly as if there hadn't been a clearing when they had begun), Malfoy had a bloody nose, which seemed to be wreaking havoc on his spellwork even before Ron had managed to break Malfoy's only weapon—his wand.

Why, then, the omen?

Harry's initial assumption was that the warning concerned the arrival of a huddle of giant spiders (acromantulai) which threw Ron off a bit. But they were fleeing something else, a behemoth with eyes that gleamed silver in the dim moonlight, high overhead.

"What the hell do the two of you think you're doing?" Harry demanded, and they both started. Harry realised that his sudden appearance, when they were fixated upon other things (in Ron's case, probably the acromantulai), must have made him seem to seep out of the night itself. "Honestly," he said, disregarding their momentary shock,"didn't the two of you learn from brawling the last time? Malfoy, are you truly stupid enough to attempt to fight Ron with just your fists? I guarantee he can best you; you needn't put yourself through the pain, and I know that you, as a slytherin, would rather avoid senseless pain, at least when you're the victim, and not the perpetrator."

Malfoy said something to the effect of, "Why, you—!"

Harry studiously ignored him. "Ron, are you alright?"

Ron was busy pretending that there were no acromantulai present, thank you. "Well enough," he said, instead, rolling a shoulder.

"He set me on fire!" Malfoy protested. Harry glanced at him, wondered why he bothered, when in the dim moonlight, a black scorch mark on a black cloak would be indiscernible.

"Did you?" asked Harry, voice flat and non-judgemental,

Ron looked sheepish. "Perhaps unintentionally," he conceded.

Harry didn't ask how you could unintentionally scorch someone. He still remembered the train ride.

Harry shook his hair back out of his face, and crossed his arms, and then pointedly aimed his wand at the acromantula behind Malfoy. "_Stupefy_," he said. Malfoy ducked, and the giant, hairy spider shrieked as it went down. The others chittered, and a real fight might have broken out, as the tall shadow with its silver eyes reared up behind the spiders, but then Hagrid appeared, and the forest creatures saw him, understood, and, true to Hagrid's earlier statements, melted away into the night, Hagrid calling admonishments and threats after them, to keep them in their place.

Ron folded his arms, glaring down at the ground. He sensed, not being a fool, that Hagrid would attempt to make him apologise, and he wasn't going to.

"You knew that they were in danger?" asked Hagrid, rounding on Harry. Neville nearly slammed into Hagrid's back, but came to stand, swaying, behind Hagrid, looking as if he didn't much care about the answer, one way or the other.

"I suppose I did," Harry mused. He still couldn't explain it, himself. Ron shot him a sharp look, which melted into a furrowed-browed bemused expression. Harry glanced down, scuffing his shoes. He still wasn't used to so much attention directed towards him, and he was astonished that Hagrid didn't seem angry at Harry's latest act of insubordination. "I just—I had the feeling that Ron was in trouble."

"Well, he's clearly flouting the school rules. I think that merits another detention," Malfoy said.

Everyone present turned to glare at him, even Neville. "No one asked _you_, Malfoy," Neville snapped. Harry blinked. Ron gave an approving nod, and Harry facepalmed.

"You're not a Hogwarts teacher. You don't have the right to be handing out punishments," said Hagrid, turning to Malfoy. "Now, let's see here. I think we need to redistribute this group, here. Sorry, Harry. I think you should go with Malfoy—you're a tough customer, and Malfoy'll have a hard time of scaring you. Neville's already a bit overwhelmed, see, but I know you're tough enough to handle this."

Harry shrugged, and rolled his shoulders, before nodding, hands folded behind his back as he considered. Yes, that might make sense.

Ron's head was bowed, but his posture still managed to radiate disapproval.

"Harry, will you be alright?" asked Ron, as Malfoy scoffed. Harry glared at him, although he could feel the shame flooding his cheeks with heat. He didn't like Ron being the mother hen, and liked it even less when others were there to witness it.

_What would Thor do?_ he asked himself. Thor's was the only example he had as to how teamwork was supposed to work—first with Thor's Warriors Three and Sif, and then the Avengers. Teamwork was, Harry decided, a matter of making some personal sacrifices for the continued safety of the team, or of the plan. It was also about putting on a strong show of unity and single-mindedness, even when you disagreed.

He moved over to stand by Malfoy, with a sharp nod at Ron. It struck him as highly hypocritical of Ron to fret over Harry when he'd picked a fight himself, with Malfoy. But Hagrid was right: Malfoy would have a harder time of getting under Harry's skin, Harry could fight back with barbed words, and this task was far too important to be making such noise as Ron and Malfoy had been.

He forgot about the earlier omen, all the portents adding up to a cautionary tale: look here, watch out! Ron's sense of foreboding, and his own, had to have been pointing at something. And, Harry being Harry, with the sort of rotten luck that befitted a psychopathic megalomaniac far better than an orphan hero—well, it made sense that _he_ would encounter the real threat in the Forest. The one that Hagrid couldn't drive off.

Malfoy seemed to have learnt his lesson about pushing buttons whilst in the middle of a dangerous operation. He walked through the forest in utter silence, lips pressed tight together. Harry periodically looked back to make sure that Malfoy was still there. Mostly, however, he watched Fang. He knew that dogs had keen sixth and seventh senses. Fang would be the first to recognise a threat.

Suddenly, Fang stopped, and Harry glanced at him, seeing the tail tucked beneath the legs, the ears flat against the head, teeth bared in an attempt to intimidate. He stared straight ahead, and Harry attempted to follow that gaze, but the trees in this part of the forest were too thick, although the glow of a hundred drops of silvery blood lit the way like miniature lanterns, driving off the dark.

Harry heard a sound, the rustle and crackle of something soft and smooth dragging against the dead leaves of last year's plumage. Harry gave Malfoy a pointed look, and then cast a _silencio_ on the idiot, for good measure, before they crept forwards, into the clearing, Harry once again considering praying to someone that they not encounter whatever it was that had been killing unicorns, that the unicorn not be there. It was a stupid impulse, and Harry shoved it aside for good. He had to make his own way forward, he knew, with only his friends and allies to help him. That road to heroism started here and now. He could do this.

They stepped forwards, and the glow grew ever brighter, as the moonlight began to stream in overhead. _What would Thor do?_ he asked himself, as he hesitated, trying to drive himself forwards. The answer here was obvious: he'd ignore his fears, knowing that someone had to do this, and he'd do his best, and acquit himself with prodigious courage.

Harry was a bit more cautious. A large clearing, this one organic, or destroyed so long ago you could no longer tell it wasn't, came into view. In the heart of the clearing was a bright white shape, long, and lean, with radiant white hair, and a long, spiral horn sticking out of its forehead. At first glance, you might think that it was merely asleep, until you noticed the silvery blood coating its stilled flanks, or the thing knelt next to it, so engulfed in its black robes that it seemed to have no face, no eyes, no shape. It lifted its head, as if sensing their approach, and Harry saw silvery blood running down the vague outline of its face. Harry winced as Malfoy's hand clenched around his arm as a vise.

Then, the creature's eyes met Harry's, and it felt as if his scar were splitting open—fearful of Malfoy making any noise, he'd foolishly trusted himself to stay silent. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out at the searing pain in his scar. This was, he decided, how it felt to be branded. He was surprised that Thanos hadn't tried that one.

A shadow stirred, just beneath his awareness. Something scuttled across his mind's eye; hunched over, its shadow was difficult to identify. Danger. Caution. Something bad was waking.

Someone was trying to invade his mind. He realised this with such violence that _something_, perhaps his automatic mental defences, responded thus, forcefully ejecting the intruder, and he gasped, finding himself bent over on hands and knees.

_I will not beg. I am not interested in your idea of __Mercy__._

A strange, silvery sort of radiance dripped down his arms, through his veins, mimicking the unicorn blood, and he knew what it was at once.

_Mother_, he thought, remembering what she had said about being on the lookout for threats. She hadn't reacted to the things that had attacked Ron in the forest, nor to the troll, but she acted now. That was a very, very bad sign.

_I should have paid greater heed to Ron_, he thought, next, and began to shape a shield with his hands—a buckler, the sort he was most used to. Armour began to form around his body.

And then Firenze was there, the galloping of many hooves resounding in Harry's ears, exacerbating his ever-worsening headache. The black-haired centaur, among many others, took up position around the clearing, as Firenze turned to Harry, who was only now starting to get to his feet.

"You did not say that you were Harry Potter, young lord," he said. Harry raised himself to his feet, somehow, but he felt dizzy, and weak. He remembered the night he'd barged into Mother's cottage, half-unconscious, unable to walk straight. This was rather similar.

"I didn't know it mattered," he murmured in reply.

"The forest is not safe for you at this time. You must leave at once. Now, while that thing is distracted, climb on my back."

_What would Thor do? Would he retreat? No. He'd see to it that his companions were safe…._

"Malfoy," he managed to say, holding out his hand to brace himself against a tree.

"Hagrid is on his way. But you cannot afford to wait for him to arrive, as your companion can."

Harry hesitated, but was able to recognise that his thoughts were too muddy, and his legs too weak, for him to be of much use in a fight. In a daze, he somehow (by memory?) swung his legs over Firenze's back, and they set off, Harry crouched low to reduce his height, and avoid the most branches. It also made it easier to find a grip if, as he suspected, he was about to fall off.

"What was that thing, back there?" he asked, once his head was the slightest bit clearer (due to decreased proximity, perhaps?)

Firenze slowed to a walk, pausing now and again to bat aside a stray branch, of which there were many.

"Tell me, young lord, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?" asked Firenze, and Harry closed his eyes, thinking hard, but he didn't think he'd ever used it, at all, nor seen or heard of anyone who did.

"No. We've only used the horn and tail hairs in potions," he said at last.

Firenze sighed. "That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn. Only one with much to gain, and little to lose, would attempt such a thing. It will save you, though you be an inch from death, but…you have slain something pure and defenceless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips."

Harry shivered, despite himself. _A bit __like__ the one I have now, perhaps?_ he mused.

"If you're going to be cursed, death's better, isn't it? Who'd do such a thing?"

"Oh, yes," agreed Firenze. "But humans rarely look at it thus. Death _would_ be better, unless you had at your disposal something better, something to drive away the curse, and make you immortal. Do you know what is hidden at the school at this very moment?"

Harry closed his eyes, slumping, and felt Firenze turn to look at him, perhaps to ensure he hadn't fainted. "The Philosopher's Stone," he murmured. "Of course…but who—?"

"Can you think of no one who might desire eternal life—who has clung to life, awaiting his second chance?"

Harry suddenly felt bone weary. Something heavy weighted down the layer of dread etched deep into his soul. Of course. Voldemort.

"I see that you understand," said Firenze. Harry could feel the centaur's nod, the way it jolted through the rest of his body, making the yellow hair ripple.

"And now, if I might ask you a rather sensitive question, in exchange for my warnings, young lord," he said, and Harry felt his mind force itself into a state of greater alert. He sat up straighter, trying to borrow authority. Thor was the ambassador. What would he do, in this situation?

"You may," he said, although he could sense the direction this was headed in.

"My fellows and I—the herd—wishes to know what you are. We can sense something about you…something inhuman dwells in your blood, but we are unable to agree. Some say that you are a god in mortal guise, and others that you are the child of a god—what in Greece we call a _hero_. It would assist our chieftain in knowing how you should be treated, if you would provide us with the answer."

No thought given to the idea that it might all be news to him, that he might not have any idea what they were talking about.

"I don't know," he said, feeling a tendril of madness trying to creep in. It had been a very long night, indeed. Firenze stopped where he stood, and turned to face Harry, as if judging his sincerity.

"You don't know," he repeated, voice slow, contemplative. Harry looked away.

"My mother…my mother was a goddess in human form," he admitted. The words were strange to speak aloud, when he himself still couldn't quite believe them. "But James Potter was mortal, and I—"

He paused, struggling to put the thoughts together. "My mother was a goddess, reincarnated. I might be in the same boat, metaphorically speaking. I mean—I _think_—"

He was saved from trying to sort out his thoughts (and decide what to believe) by the thundering of a hundred hooves, and the much quieter arrival of Hagrid.

Firenze nodded to him, and Harry climbed off; feeling rather contrite, he spread his hands wide.

"My life is a mystery to me," he said to Firenze. "But if I _do_ work it out, I'd love to return and explain it to you. Oh, and thank you, Firenze. I owe you a debt," he said. He bowed, hand on his heart, and turned back to Hagrid, stumbling over to the much taller man. "We found the unicorn," he said, in a quiet voice. "The centaurs, I think, will lead you to it, as long as you keep me away."


	18. Eye of the Storm

**author's note: With my apologies to Emerald Ashes, for ripping off _Seventh Horcrux_. I tried to fix that part of the dialogue in this chapter. I failed.**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Eye of the Storm**

He couldn't be bothered to explain that night, or even the next, although he tried his hardest to impress the severity of the situation once he, Hermione, and Ron had come together to discuss the events of that evening, and Ron had finished reprimanding him for being reckless. Which, Harry thought, was highly hypocritical

"So, that's it, then. All this time, we thought that Snape just wanted to get rich, but he was working for You-Know-Who, and if You-Know-Who gets that stone, he'll be back to full power in no time. We need to _do_ something—"

"But Harry," Hermione said, her lower lip trembling as he redirected his attention to her. His gaze was probably rather wild and intense right now. _Feral_. He looked away from her, and she, as if unfrozen, said, "But Harry, everyone says that Dumbledore is the only one You-Know-Who ever feared…surely, as long as Dumbledore is here, the stone is safe."

Harry calmed down, rather, with these reassuring words, but the next few months would give him plenty of opportunity to reconsider, and to see the holes in her argument. He was warily watching for the end of the world long before what he feared came to pass.

* * *

It was something of a shock when the Twins sought him out the next day, flanking him, as if in deliberate mockery of Malfoy and his goons. Harry rolled his eyes; if they were still trying to intimidate him, they'd have to work harder at it. He pretended that he didn't see them, working hard on his Potions essay. It wouldn't do to turn in subpar work to _that_ class, and end of term was approaching. This was the last week of March, after all, and he wanted to have his mind free of distractions, come the Thirty-First.

"We hear you had an adventure without us, little brother," said one of them, and Harry very nearly started. He scowled, trying to figure out what they were playing at, now, and set aside his quill and ink. He wouldn't be able to think with the Twins behaving this…erratically.

"'Little brother'?" Harry repeated, and one of the Twins said,

"Do you hear an echo in here, George?"

Harry tried to smother a grin at the obvious throwback. He spread his hands in surrender, and whirled around to face them. By that time, in the blink of an eye, his smile had already gone.

"I'm a bit curious as to how you mistook me for Ron," he admitted. "I know we look very similar, what with the red hair, and the blue eyes, and my excessive height for an eleven-year-old—"

"No, no, we know who you are. You're that Seeker git who lost us fifty points. Bravo! Well done! I think that warrants a party, don't you, Fred?" asked the twin who had been addressed as "George".

Harry frowned, and leant his head on his elbow. "What brings you here, then?" he asked, making his tone as bored as possible.

"Well, we thought that we should tell you that we're on speaking terms with Ron, again," said "Fred".

"And that he tried to redirect our attention towards no longer shunning _you_, but we told him that we thought you seemed a decent enough chap, for all that you'd lost us an assload of points, and we were planning to speak with you anyway."

"I'm not sure he believed us; he's almost savvy sometimes."

" Some things he hinted at made us quite ashamed of ourselves—"

"—something about you having no decent kin to live with—"

"—and we decided to informally adopt you. It's a Weasley brood thing. We're a mite young to be having children, ourselves, although you were probably such a cute ickle baby—"

Harry frowned, and crossed his arms, trying to figure out their angle.

"Is that right?"

"It means that we've written to Mum, and you're an unofficial Weasley, now! Well, sort of. We understand that you want to keep your birth parents, and all—"

"—and Ginny would be most distraught if her _idol_ were off-limits—"

Whichever twin was speaking received a solid elbow to the ribs from the other, which shut him up. He needn't have bothered, because Harry's mind had already overloaded.

"Then…you're offering—?"

"A family? Sure, little bro. We'll look after you and everything, and try not to be gits to you, again. It's not the same thing as an adoption, of course, but you can't have everything. Besides, you're the last of a proud and noble line of purebloods, didn't you know?"

"Well, blood traitors. Malfoy wouldn't like you anyway. But the Potters go back _centuries_. Or more."

"So, we just dropped by to say 'Welcome to the Weasleys!' Ta-ta!"

He was sure that it was an act of petty malice, a small revenge, when they turned, then, and skipped away.

So much for writing _that_ essay.

* * *

Some gentle prodding from his mother was all it took to set him on the right path, hunting down the aberrations in Hogwarts life that raised suspicion. Hermione had told him, back when they had been fretting over how to handle Norbert, that she'd wheedled the names of the other guardians of the stone from Hagrid, in one of his frequent moments of distraction. Harry now recalled that knowledge, sitting in his chair in the common room, remembering what he and his mother had discussed on the night of March Thirty-First.

He made three columns on his sheet of parchment: name, sort of protection anticipated, and whether or not it was anticipated that Voldemort and his ally knew how to best it.

It made him realise some rather disheartening facts. The first was that he knew what only one of the protections was: Fluffy, although his mother said that Snape's protection "would not be as straightforward as it initially appears". Professor Sprout taught Herbology, and Professor McGonagall Transfiguration, but these were highly flexible fields, as was Charms, the domain of Professor Flitwick. Ron's contribution to his table was the further complication that Flitwick was renowned as having been a champion duelist, before he'd become a teacher. Quirrell was either too unstable (unpredictable, _chaotic_) or too wily to guess at his contribution, and as for Dumbledore…well, he was considered the greatest wizard of the modern era. His protection could be anything.

Dumbledore had almost certainly not let the protectors confer amongst one another, in case the protections, or minds, of one be compromised. If Harry had doubted such wisdom, he need only think of the conversation he'd witnessed, the threats issued in the Forbidden Forest, after that quidditch match.

The second disheartening fact was the simple one that he didn't know how many of these Voldemort's _ally_ knew, or knew how to counter. He knew that one of these checkboxes was ticked, and he knew that one couldn't be (Dumbledore's); the rest were mysteries. If Snape and Quirrell were, in whatever way, and for whatever reason, working together, then it was highly probable that those checkboxes were both ticked. But maybe they were still at odds with one another. McGonagall's was almost certainly blank, as were Sprout's and Flitwick. But…Hagrid….

He couldn't deny that he wanted to leave that checkbox alone, and give Hagrid an all clear, but the fact was, he had himself occasionally driven Hagrid to reveal more information than he had intended. And there was something else, another reason….

He shooed Ron and Hermione away every time they came to check on him. At least, judging by the continued presence of both Quirrell and Snape, they had made no headway yet, in the quest to acquire the Philosopher's Stone. But, something was eating away at him.

"Hagrid," he said, "just how did you come by Norbert, anyway?" There couldn't be that many people wandering around carrying illegal dragon eggs, and it wasn't the sort of subject liable to come up in casual conversation—they wouldn't want to be caught.

"Won him in a game of cards, down at the Hog's Head." Harry thought he probably knew the name of a tavern when he heard one, and sighed. Liquor _had_ been known to loosen men's tongues.

"Someone you've met before? Someone you trusted?" Harry prompted, hoping for a "yes".

"Dunno," Hagrid shrugged, as if it weren't important. "He wouldn't lower his hood. Don't give me that look," he said, not having to look, by now, to recognise that Hermione was frowning at him with narrowed eyes. Harry privately suspected that Ron had been giving her lessons in death glares, but wisely kept this suspicion to himself.

"What do you remember?" he prompted, head in his hands. This could be bad, or it could be innocuous.

"I don't really remember…he was wearing a big cloak, though…hard to see him that well. You get all sorts at the Hog's Head, though—might not've been fully human."

Hagrid clearly didn't care, which was nice and all, but not very helpful. The thought of someone wearing such a big cloak that their features couldn't be discerned recalled the thing drinking unicorn's blood in the forest to his mind.

"And when you were talking to him, did the subject of Fluffy come up at all?"

Hagrid was distracted, which was just as well, or he might have been more suspicious of the three of them. "Eh, the subject might've come up, I can't really remember…let's see, he asked me what I did for a living, and I said I was the gamekeeper. He wanted to make sure I could take care of Norbert, see. But I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. Should've seen him when he was teething…but I figured out: every animal's got a soft spot for something. Fluffy's is music. I told him, well, it took me a while, but I'm good with animals. If I just play him a little music, he goes right to sleep. A dragon couldn't be much worse than that, could— Now hold on! Forget I said that!"

Harry quite deliberately didn't return the subject to Fluffy after that. If the cloaked man was Voldemort, then he now knew how to get past that obstacle. That was the relevant information. Given the resemblance between the being in the clearing, and the being Hagrid described, things did not look good.

Harry spelt it out for Ron and Hermione, and then retreated to the common room to pore over his list.

"Well, he's got all he's going to get, hasn't he? Seems the only real obstacle he worried about was Fluffy—and maybe he pried the information out of the other Hogwarts teachers in a similar way. Either way, I think you can be sure that You-Know-Who and his…servant…know all they need to get to the stone. We must make that assumption."

"But we don't know that there's a real threat. We don't know how much he knows," said Hermione, looking over the list, and trying to reassure Harry. "And Dumbledore's here, still guarding the stone."

-l-

Harry subsided, for the moment. Their final exams came and went, and they went outside to enjoy the day. Harry's scar, which had been twinging regularly, of late, suddenly burnt as if prodded with a hot iron.

"Ouch! It's hurt before, but never this badly…it can't mean anything good. If Dumbledore is so knowledgeable, perhaps I'll ask him, but—the last time it hurt this badly was in the clearing. I think it might mean that You-Know-Who is nearby…."

Ron paled. "But…but he can't be in _Hogwarts_, can he?" he asked.

Harry gave a helpless shrug. He'd heard that Hogwarts was the safest place in Wizarding Britain, and heard time and again that Dumbledore was a truly phenomenal wizard, the only one Voldemort had ever feared. But the centaurs must have had old, powerful magic, too. According to the bestiaries he'd found in the library, they were considered great diviners in times gone by. Their ability to read the stars was unmatched. Perhaps, Voldemort lurked in the Forbidden Forest, which must, technically speaking, be outside of the protective enchantments buried into Hogwarts's very walls.

If that were the case, however, then the only real danger was his lackey. Mother insisted that it must be Quirrell—that Snape would not tread that far down that road—but Hermione was the one able to collect and analyse information, and the data she had gathered did not reflect well upon his mother's old friend.

"If he has no means of access to Hogwarts, then there is nothing to fear. However, 'better safe than sorry'. I refuse to leave this to chance."

He barely glanced at the owl flying by overhead, as he stormed back into the castle, closely followed by a flummoxed Ron and a desperate Hermione. They probably thought that he had lost his mind.

"And what are the three of you doing inside on such a _wonderful_, sunny day?" asked Snape, with his trademark sneer. The way he glanced down his nose at Harry suggested that Harry had dragged in something revolting in the folds of his robes.

Or that he _was_ the disgusting thing dragged in.

"We needed to see Headmaster Dumbledore, sir," he said, in his politest voice, the one bounding on obsequiousness. It had never worked on Snape before, and it didn't now; he merely narrowed his eyes at Harry, swooping down towards them. He was a very difficult teacher to even maintain a façade of respect for. Were not the intricacies of diplomacy, the need to court favour, reciprocity, alliance, treaty, politics, by now deep engrained into his mind, he would have given up the man for a lost cause long ago.

"Oh, and what about?" asked Snape, his tone suggesting that he would not believe anything they said, even if they told him that his robe were on fire, and he could himself see the flames.

Harry was coming to hate him. Next to him, now, he could almost smell that Ron was about to accidentally set something on fire. Or, perhaps, "accidentally". Hermione danced on her toes nearby, clearly wishing to flee. She turned to him, and then turned away, and then turned back. It was very distracting, and he needed to think.

"We believe we may have discovered a threat to the safety of the school, sir," he said, making sure to keep his eyes lowered, lest he seem confrontational. Snape could turn the oddest things into "cheek".

"The Headmaster is a very busy man. He has no time to waste on silly, childish games. Go back out and enjoy the sunshine, Potter. You wouldn't want to miss out."

Snape just _had_ to make himself sound even more suspicious, didn't he? Compounding this was his refusal to leave them alone until he'd seen them head back outside, Harry's mind already whirring ahead, drawing up new plans. One of them must surely work. They perhaps should seek out McGonagall. She'd shown that she….

Well, that she'd listen to them, believe them, and then punish them, regardless. _What would Thor do?_ asked Harry, silently, for the umpteenth time. The answer was obvious: authority figures wouldn't listen, and there was a clear and present threat to the safety of the world. The only thing you could do was go against authority, and hope that by the time they caught on, you were too far ahead of them for them to stop you.

…Actually, maybe that wasn't what Thor would do. But it was the plan that occurred to Harry, and it made sense to him. What had his previous attempts to garner support or aid produced? The librarians, relocated or killed, as well as all the sympathetic adults of his childhood. McGonagall, making him, Neville, and Ron the pariahs of Gryffindor House. Snape, who had just…well, true, he didn't have the full story, but that was because Harry wasn't sure that he could be trusted. A paranoid part of him suspected all of them. That part insisted that he should do this alone.

But there was one last recourse. Everyone spoke of how great Dumbledore was. Hopefully, he was not the distant sort of great that Harry was familiar with from Loki's father, Odin.

He barged into the common room, heedless of the scene he was causing. Hermione was hiding her head behind her hands, as if anyone would even possibly be fooled into believing that it wasn't she behind those hands. A glance at Ron showed that he was chewing the whole matter over, and that he had no idea what Harry was about, and why he'd come to the common room.

"Fred? George?" Harry called, and Ron tensed, and began to shift his weight as if bunching himself up for a quick retreat. Probably a justified reaction to legendary pranksters.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the seventh son. What can we do for you, today?"

Huh? Wait, that sort of made sense. Ron was the youngest of six boys, and Harry was younger than he. Seven was a powerful magic number, too. Harry approved.

"We need to see Dumbledore about…something. Can't tell you what. It's horribly boring. Hermione wants to know if she can start taking third year courses next year—"

Hermione ceased from hiding her face to glare at him, which he figured was probably a legitimate response, but he just smiled, and ploughed on. Ron was shaking his head, clearly on Hermione's side, despite the situation. Of course, he also didn't know what Harry was doing….

"—and we thought we'd come for moral support. The trouble is, we have no idea where Dumbledore's office is—"

"Are you going to prank him?" asked one of the Twins. Harry frowned.

"No. I _just_ finished explaining what was going on. Weren't you listening? It's terribly urgent, because we'll be going home for the summer, soon. Besides, if we don't do this now, we might lose our nerve."

The Twins still suspected something, but they seemed to realise that the only way that they'd learn what was truly going on was if they came with.

Not that it mattered. McGonagall caught sight of them roaming the halls and was instantly suspicious. The Twins had been working on some sort of top-secret project or other in the common room when the Trio had interrupted; for all Harry knew, it _was_ dangerous, forbidden, or both. But the Trio hadn't done anything wrong, and it was galling, to be treated as if he were some sort of criminal when he hadn't done anything wrong.

"She does realise that I didn't threaten to burn Hogwarts to the ground; I merely asked if we could speak to Dumbledore, right?" he asked, fifteen minutes later, and the three of them had retreated back to the boys dormitory to further plan. Apparently, whilst the Founders hadn't trusted boys to enter the girls dorms, the reverse was not true, and therefore Hermione was free to come and go from their dorms whenever she wished. This struck him as highly unfair, and he resolved to find a way to bypass the rule, if only to spite it.

Then, it was back down to business.

"_Gone_!" Hermione moaned, sitting down on Ron's bed, head once more in her hands. She looked as if she were about to curl up in the foetal position, as well. Harry couldn't much blame her. There went their last chance to solve things in a by-the-book way.

Of course, he'd never been terribly by-the-book, either. Life at the Dursleys' encouraged creative compliance, following the letter of the rules whilst breaking the spirit of them.

He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, until Ron shoved his hand away, and pulled Hermione into a hug, whispering things that were probably reassuring, and therefore false, to her as he rubbed her back. It was almost a touching scene, if Harry hadn't been fixated upon more important matters. He'd shoved aside trying to plan how to deal with _Thanos_ for this. It was _important_!

He crossed his arms, and waited for them to remember him, leaning back and staring at the lovely barn-red timbres above the bed canopies. Not that he wasted the time; his eyes might have been analysing the rafters, but his mind was fixated on the Third Floor Corridor. He had a flute that he could use on Fluffy, but for the rest of it, he'd just have to improvise. He might perish in the attempt, but then, at least he wouldn't be around for Voldemort's resurrection. Although, he discovered, it bothered him that Ron, and Hermione, _would_ be.

He wondered if they'd notice if he snuck off, now.

"Well, that's it," he said, to himself, he assumed, but Ron pulled away from Hermione to turn to face him, slightly. "He's everything he needs: Dumbledore gone, a means of getting past all of the obstacles—his chances are as good as they're going to be. I bet he sent that letter, see. The Ministry is going to be mighty surprised when Dumbledore turns up.

"He'll go after the stone tonight, when fewer people are around. Even by magic, without using instantaneous travel, it would take awhile to get to London, wouldn't it? Naturally, he'd find a way to ensure that Dumbledore had to take the slow way. Dumbledore will be wading through bureaucratic red tape by nightfall. It's perfect, see."

At some point, he'd expanded his narrative to address Ron and Hermione as well. He wasn't sure why he was including them; it might have been a parting gift, in case he didn't return. _See now, this is why I did what I did. Understand?_

"There's only one thing for it. I'm going to go after the Stone myself, tonight, and beat him to it."

"But—but you heard what McGonagall said—if she sees any of us near the Third Floor Corridor again, she'll take a hundred points—"

"So _what_?" demanded Harry, finally running out of patience. It was going to happen one of these days. Ideally, he wouldn't have snapped at one of his few friends, but he found he was past stopping now. "Do you think that You-Know-Who will leave us alone, if Gryffindor wins the house cup? Don't you see that there's more important things? He has to be stopped, and I suppose there's no one with more need to see him thwarted than I. 'But, he'll _kill_ you, Harry!' you want to say. Well, do you think that thought hasn't occurred to me? But he'll kill me either way; if he kills me down there, I'm only dying a little sooner than I would, anyway, because I would never even _consider_ helping him! He killed my parents, remember?

"Well, I have to assume that they'd be alright with the idea of me dying to keep everyone else safe! You're not going to stop me—I—I've been studying, and, whether you like it or not, I'm going down there, _tonight_—"

"Yes," Hermione said, meekly, head bowed, shoulder slumped. She looked utterly defeated, and Harry felt a twinge of conscience. "You're right. I suppose you'll use your father's old invisibility cloak. But…but will it cover all three of us?"

Harry blinked, his thoughts derailed, his plans thrown up into the air like so many jigsaw puzzle pieces. He wondered if he could put them properly back together again.

"What? What did you say? Hang on, you can't be—"

"I said that I would look after you," Ron said. "And I am a man of my word. Family doesn't abandon family. More than that, I care about you. You are my friend. If you venture forth into danger, I shall surely follow. And did you think that Hermione would be indifferent, if you died, and she could have done something, had she been there? We will accompany you. I said it before: you ought to place greater trust in your friends, and turn more often to others for assistance. It is not strength that makes a man in your circumstances face all peril alone, but fear. Tonight, then, you shall head into threat of certain death. Very well. Hermione and I will accompany you. Never fear, Harry. We are with you, to the very end."

"Yes," said Hermione, sounding a bit breathless, and faint, but she raised her head to stare Harry in the eyes. "Just let me go back over my notes. There are a few hours, yet, 'til nightfall—"

Harry sat there, motionless, for several minutes after they had gone.


	19. Sooner or Later

**Chapter Nineteen: Sooner or Later**

Hermione was still fuming over the Neville Incident by the time they'd reached the entrance to the third floor forbidden corridor. Harry was beginning to think he'd have to calculate how Hermione's refusal to speak to him affected their ability to function as a team, but Hermione seemed to understand, at least, that she mustn't let her resentment cloud her judgement, and that they'd need to be able to communicate freely, amongst themselves.

Harry tried not to act too relieved that they were now speaking with one another, again. He'd started to think that there was a problem with Hermione's hearing, or why wasn't she reacting to his apology?

He wasn't _really_ sorry, though—there _had_ been no time with which to argue to Neville, and he posed too great a threat of revealing them before they were ready. And while Hermione did have a point about how he ought to have done something about Neville, himself, he'd thought it more important to see what Hermione would do—the moment of truth—left to her own devices.

That didn't _really_ qualify as _testing_ her, though. He just needed to know how serious she was about this. It was _not_ a test of her character, and would she please calm down.

Shockingly, it wasn't that simple. Ron agreed with both Hermione's verdict, and with the claim that Harry should have done something about Neville. They were, all three of them, a bit too stubborn to back down. Things might have gone very badly, indeed, except that by mutual, silent agreement, they pulled themselves back together outside the forbidden corridor.

Harry whipped off the invisibility cloak, revealing their presence to the empty corridor, and tucked the voluminous cloak into his oversized pockets as best he could, glad for once that his cousin was so hefty; bigger clothes meant bigger pockets, and the fluid nature of the invisibility cloak meant that it naturally seemed to seep into cracks and folds, compacting into itself.

Harry turned to Ron, as if it were arranged that Ron would always be first into the unknown. But the door refused to open until Hermione strode forwards, with still rather jerky steps, and whispered, "_alohomora_!" The lock clicked open, and Ron pulled open the unlatched door, before looking up in brazen defiance at the three salivating canine heads that lurked on the other side.

Harry glanced down at the harp left sitting upon the floor, and was quietly amused—neither Snape nor Quirrell seemed the type for a harp. Voldemort even less. But that was neither here nor there. The relevant fact was that, whoever was Voldemort's ally, they'd been and gone before Harry and his company—but they weren't far ahead. The small, enclosed area seemed almost to continue to resonate with the dregs of the song, and he could almost feel the warmth of the hand that had plucked these strings.

And then, of course, there was the still rather relaxed disposition of Fluffy to consider. But he was already starting to rouse himself towards violence. Harry pulled out the flute, and began to blow into the mouthpiece. Either he knew nothing of wind instruments (entirely possible), or this one suffered from a severe lack of range. Thankfully, Fluffy didn't seem to care much. Straightaway, his eyelids began to droop, and then he lay down, front paws crossed ahead of him, already twitching with doggy dreams, quite possibly of the violence he would visit upon the hapless intruder who next dared to disturb his rest.

The next hurdle to jump, with Fluffy out of the picture, was whatever lay beneath the trapdoor Fluffy was guarding. Ron being Ron, he volunteered for the potentially fatal task of discovering what lay beneath. He threw himself under the dog's three heads, pulled hard on the trapdoor's handle, and peered into the dark below. Well, at least he wasn't _that_ reckless….

Ron swung his legs over the edge of the hole leading down, and dropped. Harry, shoving the flute into Hermione's hands without bothering to look back at her, took the step forward required to gaze down into the pit. He found himself thinking of another drop, into a void. A fall through space. A fall that had killed him.

He knew that he'd have to drop soon, or lose his nerve. Just then, Ron's voice, faint but still distinct, rose up from below, telling him that the landing was soft, and, without bothering to check to see if Hermione wanted to go first, he dropped. Sure enough, he landed on something soft, nappy and fibrous. A plant.

Wait. A plant? Didn't that mean—?

Before he could finish the thought, the noise of the flute died off, and Hermione dropped down next to them. She then wrenched her arms and legs out of the hold of the killer plant they'd landed on, struggling to reach the edges of it before it could ensnare her.

It had taken him too long to figure out. Damn.

"Hermione?" he asked. "What do we do? How do we kill this thing, or make it let go, or something?"

Hermione kicked out at the plant one last time. It released her ankle, and she stumbled backwards, nearly falling, but catching herself against the wall in time.

"Let's see…Devil's Snare…Devil's Snare. 'It likes the cold and the dark'—"

"Then, light a fire!" Harry cried.

"Don't struggle—it's got too good of a hold on you!" Hermione warned.

"I could—" Ron began, and Harry could hear the sudden upbeat tone to his words, and knew what the suggestion was without him having to finish the sentence.

"Don't you _dare_," he hissed at Ron. "You could set the plant on fire without trying, true, but what if it ended up burning _us_?"

"I think I could contain it to a specific area," Ron said, sounding pensive. "It might not hurt to try—"

"You mean you have _control_ over your accidental magic, now?" asked Harry, unsure of how to respond. "Does it still qualify as accidental, or—? Oh, go ahead. Hermione doesn't seem to have figured out how to—"

The smell of ash and smoke assailed him, as well as a high-pitched, squealing noise, as the plant shrank away from the boy who had just set it ablaze. And, true to his words, Ron was containing the fire to his specific area. The fire burnt off around him, and the vines shrank back from him, as if they sensed that his body was covered in flames. Or something.

Hermione, meanwhile, had finally decided to follow suit, and a jet of blue flames assaulted the creeping tendrils covering Harry's feet, and legs. Harry ignored the heat, snapping the vines by kicking. They withdrew from him in that one area, but persevered in trying to smother him.

Ron grabbed hold of some of the vines near Harry's chest and face, and they shrieked and recoiled, as if sensing the imminent danger. Working together, Hermione and Ron managed to free Harry from the vines, and they helped him out of reach.

"Well. That was fun," he said, once he'd recovered his breath, and could stand straight again. He had the sense that the two of them turned to stare at him, and, although they couldn't see it in the dim corridor, he rolled his eyes, and then strode ahead of them, to the door he sensed on the far side. It was more in the way that airflow was blocked than any real knowledge of there being a door there, but he found the handle, and threw open the door into the comparatively bright light of an actually lit room.

Ron followed close behind, his enduring concern almost palpable as tension in the air, and then Hermione, turning occasionally to glance back at the writhing plant behind them, as if its reach might suddenly septuple, and it would be able to renew its attack on them.

The room was filled with winged things flitting about the room. He wasn't sure what they were, at first. They had tiny wings of every design and hue, but something about their "bodies" made him think that they couldn't be birds. Besides, why would there be a flock of birds under the school? And they must be _miles_ under the school, by now. The fall had seemed to take forever, just as—

_Don't think about that_, he told himself, as he hurried to the far side of the room, where the door leading further into the obstacle course was, naturally, locked.

There were broomsticks along the walls. He sighed. He had no idea how good of a flier Ron and Hermione were, but he knew that he'd need help, catching the key. Because, of _course_ that was what all of the flying things were. Winged keys. And one of them looked ruffled, as if it had recently been caught.

As it turned out, Hermione was a horrendous flier, but Ron was almost as skilled as Harry. Or, possibly, more. It was hard to tell in such a short period of time. But, their teamwork helped them to succeed.

Hermione's fortitude, however, seemed to be flagging.

"What am I good for?" she muttered, having dropped from the broom just before it could crash into the wall. Harry suspected that she'd done some damage to her legs with the fall—the impact must have been jarring, from a height of twelve feet, although wizards might have enhanced regenerative capacities. Not that he'd know; he hadn't jumped from the school roof, he'd climbed. Still, he could recognise the first warning signs of a nervous breakdown when he saw them, he thought.

"Hermione?" he asked, at a loss as to what to say next.

"Hermione, what is the matter?" asked Ron, turning from the unlocked door to face her. For once, the concern in his face, and the worried frown, were not meant for Harry. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy, and mentally kicked himself. He couldn't resent Ron's worrywart tendencies as they applied to him, constantly pester Ron to leave him be, and then complain when Ron _did_. Besides, Hermione was obviously not well.

"I—I'm not like the two of you," she murmured. "I don't know what I was thinking, coming with you. You've obviously got this handled, and—and you're a lot stronger, physically, than I am. And then, when there's any threat of danger—I freeze up! I think I'd just get in the way, and I—"

"Well, far be it from me to stop you, if you think you should go back. But, might I remind you that you saved Ron's and my lives? I confess that I have never heard of 'Devil's Snare', and would not have been able to find a way to counter it, on my own. I suppose what I'm saying is that _you_ were right, the both of you, and that I was a fool to attempt this on my own. But, if you feel particularly threatened by what lies ahead—" He paused, considering. Ron seemed to know how to defend himself, judging by his fight with Malfoy, in the Forbidden Forest. Harry had Loki's memories to fall back on. What did Hermione have? No wonder she felt she was in the most danger.

He bit his lip. "Hermione, the truth is, you know more about magic than Ron and I combined—and Ron was _raised_ in the magical world. We need your expertise, and your intelligence. If it comes down to a fight, leave it to us. Just stay hidden."

He pulled the invisibility cloak out of his pocket, and wrapped it over her shoulders, turning away before she could respond. "Just be sure to give that back to me when this is done. It's all I have of Dad, after all."

"Harry, I can't—" Hermione protested.

"This will hide you from sight, but not from hearing, so _shh_. Let Ron and me handle any threats. Just help us to figure things out."

Hermione nodded, and pulled up the hood of the cloak. She'd be harder to keep track of, but she was smart. She'd let them know if they were leaving her behind.

Harry turned to Ron, whose expression was suddenly a bit…inscrutable. Most unusual, for Ron.

"How very…heroic of you," Ron said, as Harry passed him by, on the way to the next obstacle. Harry frowned, not sure he understood.

"No, not really," he said. "I just don't want either of you to die. After all, _I_ dragged you into this."

He didn't know what else to say, how to express the realisation that had hit him, at the knowledge that he would not be indifferent to their deaths. He therefore ignored it, pouting when he saw that almost the entire area of the next room was taken up by a gigantic chess set.

"Right. Ron, you're up."

Ron turned to face the next room for the first time, and froze.

"Wizard's chess is…a bit _violent_, isn't it?" asked Hermione.

No one said anything. Well, the chess pieces now knew she was here. She lowered the hood of the borrowed cloak, and turned her head around, analysing the room.

"I think…I think we must defeat them, to cross to the next door," Ron said. He turned to the black king, standing nearby. "Is that it?" he demanded. "We must defeat the white king in order to proceed?"

The king turned, and nodded at him. These chess pieces were like ordinary, muggle ones—faceless, and, judging by the room's silence, _voiceless_. But Harry doubted that they would be as docile and harmless as a muggle chess piece. This would hurt, to be "taken". And, as it seemed, they had to take the places of three of the pieces. That way, if any of them won, all of them would gain access to the next room. Thrice as much chance of success, triple the odds. It was a very good thing that it was only the three of them, undertaking this task. He _had_ wondered if they shouldn't have brought Neville.

"Er—don't be offended, but neither of you is that great at chess—" said Ron, staring out across the chessboard.

"We're not offended," Hermione said, without missing a beat.

"We'll follow your orders," said Harry. "Just tell us what to do."

"I suppose it isn't possible for one of us to replace you," Ron asked the black king. The piece shook its head, bending low over Ron, and then straightening up. Ron frowned, but the way he had phrased the statement suggested that he hadn't had much hope of being wrong.

"I'd hoped to have _you_ take the place of the king, Harry," he admitted. "After all, losing the king means losing the game—it's the most important piece, and it is crucial that you continue, more than Hermione or I. But I had no great faith that such an act could be carried out. Here, now, you take the wild horse—the knight, Hermione can take the place of that bishop, and I'll be a rook. This way, we'll start off all together, and we shall have more time to confer."

The rightmost three pieces glided off the board at his words, sinking into the ground as they approached the edge of the giant chessboard, their energy fueling the spell.

Harry, taking a brief analysis of the subterranean magic, noted that this area was mostly unused, and had yet to develop what might be called a _specialty_. It could be used for anything. Dumbledore was using the raw power of the earth to generate more power for the traps, whatever they were, but even Harry's seventh sense could make little more of the area than this.

Ron, he noticed, was explaining somewhat his choices for their pieces. Harry was unpredictable, and played by his own rules, which seemed to fit the knight. Hermione was strictly by-the-books, her movements predicable, which lent her to both of the double pieces that remained, but there was a move in chess called "castling", in which the rook became the defence of the king. Ron seemed to think that that description fit him, and Harry couldn't argue.

With no other marker to remind him what sort of pieces each of them were, Ron had to rely on these shorthands to keep track of who was what. But he'd also picked pieces based off how liable they were to be put into harm's way—how he expected to use them, in this match, although chess was not known for being predictable. A knight's erratic movement was the best protection Ron could think of for Harry, because of course he was still trying to protect him.

He, Ron, and Hermione stepped onto the chess board, taking the places assigned them. White moved right after that—pawn to D-4—and the game began.

The next hour (or what felt an hour) was a harrowing ordeal. The first shock came when the first black piece (a pawn) was taken, and the brutality of the game was proven when the ruthless white pawn clobbered it over the head, chipping off pieces of stone (onyx?) as it bashed the poor pawn. The victim melted into the chessboard, as the white pawn moved into the vacated space. Hermione swayed, rocking slightly, and pulled the invisibility cloak around her shoulders. Not that it would do her any good, here.

The game continued, Ron trying to think both quickly and carefully—he had to ensure their safety, as well as make progress against the enemy. White had no such limitations. It was an unfair match, weighted against them, and Harry was acutely aware of this fact. The need to protect three of his pieces was limiting Ron's choices. But, somehow, he was managing to pull them all through.

But, of course, naturally, inevitably came the point, the moment of truth, where there was no other way to progress.

"We are almost at the end," Ron said, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. "Yes. It is the only way—"

"No!" Hermione and Harry cried, Harry surprised again at the strength of his own reaction. He'd seen several chess pieces melt off into the floor, by now. He knew what Ron was saying, the sacrifice he was offering, and couldn't believe that he'd led Ron to this.

"There must be—" he began.

"There is no other choice. Forgive me, Harry. I know that I said that I would always look out for you, and that we were with you for this—to the very end. I do not _mean_ to break my promise, but only in this way will you be able to proceed." His head was bowed. Harry tried not to notice that incessant little voice, telling him how sincere Ron was being, that there was no better option. "Harry—one way or another, be it in my power, we will meet again. This I _vow_."

"Ron—"

"Don't talk that way, Ron, _please_—" Hermione begged, her head also bowed, which was insufficient to hide the tears running down her face. Who knew if Ron would survive such a blow? Harry knew what Ron was doing; he was saying his goodbyes. It wasn't fair. Something clenched tight over his heart, and he couldn't breathe. Maybe it wasn't worth it. Maybe they could forfeit, back out, take another road.

"This is the only way forward. Sacrifice is the nature of chess," Ron said. "Hermione, you move two squares up and to the left on the next turn. Harry, that leaves you to move four up, two left. That should give you a checkmate. No, it _will_.

"Harry—don't hang around here when you've won. Remember why we came. You can always return for me, later, but stopping You-Know-Who and his servant are the priority. Do _not_ forget your objective. Don't let my sacrifice be in vain. And…I am glad that I met you, Harry. Thank you."

They realised that they couldn't stop him—they could only follow his orders. He nodded at them, the both of them, and moved two squares to the left. The white queen's reaction was swift and harsh. She struck Ron a swift and cruel blow with her fist of stone, and he fell to the ground, wordless, making not a sound except that of his body hitting the ground. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he was still alive, but at least Ron hadn't melted into the floor. He took courage from that.

Hermione screamed, and shook all over, but she stayed on her square, and then followed Ron's instructions, numb. Her footfalls looked unusually heavy, as if she were barely picking up her feet, and stumbling as a result.

As for Harry, he became aware of a certain hollowness that he hadn't previously noticed had been occupied. That emptiness rose up, as if it threatened to consume him. He was beginning to question whether everyone around him were fated to suffer as a result. And Ron…without realising it, he'd become reliant upon Ron. He trusted Ron—to keep him safe, but also to keep him sane. Ron was the only one he'd warned about Thanos's access to his mind, and he now felt…unguarded. Vulnerable. Exposed. Ron's defeat woke too many memories of other losses, other sacrifices, other near misses, other times of danger. Harry couldn't avoid thinking about it, but—

Why did it have to hurt? What was the use of having people close to you, if all it was was heartache when they were gone? Something inside him was twisting apart. Somewhere _inside him_, now, the void loomed. One wrong step and he would fall, and Ron wasn't here to drag him back out of it, now.

_The only way not to—_

He was not all alone. Not yet. Hermione was still with him, and, while she wasn't Ron, she was smart, and she cared about him—enough to come down here with him, risking her life. He clung to that, telling himself that he didn't _know_ that Ron was dead, and that, if they won this match, the first thing he would do was check on Ron.

He hadn't realised that he cared that much about his friends. How could he not have realised?

Two up, two left, two up. He made it behind enemy lines, and was finally in danger of assassination, except—he had a guard, even now. Its face was blank, devoid of eyes or mouth, or even nose. It was a chess piece, and it didn't have a soul. He could feel that emptiness. It was only an animated object, but it was his bodyguard, too, and it ensured that white couldn't kill him.

"Checkmate," he said. His voice, he thought, had no right being that level.

The white king made a low growling noise, the grating of stone against stone, perhaps, but it picked off its crown, and threw it down at Harry's feet. Inset in the centre was the key to the next door. Of course, of course.

Harry ignored the key, for the moment, pausing to pick up the heavy stone circlet on his way to Ron's side.

"Ron?" he asked, kneeling down beside his best friend. "Ron!"

He was breathing. He could see that Ron was breathing. Harry felt as if he hadn't breathed at all until he saw the staggered rise and fall of Ron's breathing. Laboured. He was injured. There was blood in his hair, Harry was sure he saw it. He turned to Hermione, who was already at the next door.

"Harry, come on!" she cried, tears in her voice. "The key! We have to hurry!"

For a moment, just for a moment, Harry hated her. He hated how callous she sounded, how fixated she was on the goal, when Ron had nearly died. He wished it had been she, and then hated himself for that wish. He wished it had been he, and then recalled that this was his quest. But, surely, another could—

Not now. Not with Ron gone; there were no other contenders, unless Dumbledore miraculously appeared. He hated Hermione for being unharmed, for being better, for being safe, and then it was over, and he hated himself, instead. Why did he deserve protection? He didn't _deserve_ protection. He didn't deserve friends. Look what he'd done to them! Look at his thoughts! He should just die—!

But then…. _Don't let my sacrifice be in vain_.

Ron'd assumed that he was going to die. And he didn't want Harry to waste time. Harry swallowed, and yanked the key from the crown, running over to Hermione. She paused, then, eyes wide and filled with tears, and ran back over to Ron, just waiting long enough to cover his body with the cloak. She swallowed a sob, and ran back for the door.

She cared. She'd given up her own means of defence, to ensure the enemy didn't find Ron defenceless. Harry felt as if someone had hollowed out his heart. Surely, there was nothing but nothingness inside him. A strange calm washed over him—the beginning of madness, perhaps. He was mostly past caring.

_Ron wouldn't want you to—_

He twisted the key in the lock, and opened the door.

* * *

As Hermione read out the instructions written upon the sheaf of parchment, Harry listened, analysed the bottles before them, studying them, trying to figure it out as she went, giving his mind something to do. The overwhelming stench of the troll in the previous room had shocked him to his senses. Now, there was just the guilt eating away at him. Business as usual, then.

Well, he wasn't interested at the ones at either end of the line-up—neither of them would help him to get through the tall black flames before him.

He tapped one of the bottles that he was fairly sure was poison, grateful that the bench containing all those bottles was backed up against a wall. The poem's talk of "nettle wine's left side" would have been meaningless otherwise.

His heart wasn't in it. He hoped that Hermione was having more luck. She certainly seemed to be, muttering to herself as she walked the length of the table, occasionally pointing, or glancing back at their guide.

Perhaps Harry, too, didn't have "a shred of logic", as Hermione had so eloquently put it. His thoughts might not be organised enough.

"I've got it!" cried Hermione, with a strained smile.

"You figured it out," Harry said. He tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth refused to budge.

She held up a bottle, nodding. It was medium-sized, and round, and didn't look very full. "This one will 'transport the drinker back instead'. I think one of us might want to go back. I mean, I think _I_ should."

He could hardly ask more of her. She'd given up her greatest defence, but had faithfully followed anyway. It was a good thing she couldn't read his mind.

He knew he couldn't ask her to face Voldemort with him. It wouldn't be fair to her. He smiled, somehow, and nodded. He ignored the little voice that told him that it was madness, to face the enemy all alone. _Look at how that ended, before_. But, he could do it, he knew. Ron was counting on him. The wizarding world was counting on him.

"Yes. You don't have the cloak, anymore." He took great care to ensure not an ounce of resentment or reproach were in his voice. He stated it as a simple fact.

"It's that," she agreed, nodding, setting the bottle on the floor. "But it's also this." She picked up a tiny bottle—a shot glass size of bottle—holding it out to him. He took it from her, holding it up to the light.

"There's only enough here for one," he said, realisation striking him. Of course. The potion bottles must be connected to some sort of pre-brewed batch of potions, hidden somewhere, to refill. And they must refill quickly, given that Voldemort's servant had been and gone, and they'd followed close enough that the troll was still unconscious. And Fluffy. But in that precious time it took for the bottle to refill, defenders could close the distance. Whatever the final obstacle was, it would have time enough to eliminate the intruders, one by one.

Hermione nodded at his words, bowing her head. "I'll go back, and check on Ron."

Harry's head shot up. "Yes. Do that. And send word to Dumbledore using Hedwig—it's worth a try, anyway—and speak to McGonagall. Let her know where we are. Where I am. Thank you, Hermione. I would never have made it this far, but for you."

She paused, where she had been reaching for her bottle. "…Harry?"

"Go on, Hermione. You'd best get Ron to safety. I don't know what hidden dangers that chess set holds. We shouldn't have left him that way."

Hermione nodded, and downed the liquid, and shivered. "Are you alright?" he asked, sudden fear clenching at his heart for the second time. _Please, let Hermione be okay…. _ "It isn't poison, is it?"

"I'm fine. It's just…it's cold as ice."

Ah. He'd fit right in, then. "Good luck, Harry. Be careful. You're a great wizard, you know."

He gave a coarse, bitter laugh, a humourless thing, and looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'm not," he said, his voice very quiet, so quiet she almost had to strain to hear. "You're better than I. And—"

"Me?" asked Hermione. "Books! And—and cleverness! There's more important things—friendship, and bravery, and, oh Harry, be careful—"

She flung her arms around him, and he stiffened. He still wasn't used to physical contact, although he was getting better. But that wasn't why he'd frozen. Not quite. His own thoughts haunted him. He pulled away, head bowed, backing slowly towards the fire as he spoke.

"I'm not a great wizard, Hermione. I'm none of those things you value. Not clever. Not brave. Not even a very good friend. Do you know, I resented you for being safe and well when Ron wasn't? Just for a moment. Hermione, I don't think I'm even a good person, let alone a great wizard. I think…you'd better find yourself better friends. More friends like Ron. But Hermione—despite what I just said, I _do_ care. I just thought… I'd say something sappy. I know I don't stand a chance against Snape, let alone You-Know-Who. I'm just buying us time, in the end. Hoping for a miracle. Maybe I'll surprise myself. Goodbye, Hermione Granger. It was good knowing you. I was glad to be your friend, while it lasted."

He downed the bottle, and waved at her, and ignored her cry of, "Now, you just wait here, Harry Potter—" in a much more ordinary tone, cut off as he stepped through the flames.

Hermione was a smart girl. He knew she wouldn't try to follow him.


	20. The Only Way Not to Break

**Chapter Twenty: The Only Way Not to Break**

Had he had any prior acquaintance with traveling through fireplaces, he would have been forewarned that it didn't agree with him, which was also a logical conclusion, given his aversion to extreme heat. As it was, he had never even _heard_ of floo powder, and a similar (known) unfamiliarity with wizarding ways meant he'd assumed that the journey through would be…well, less like traveling through a fireplace.

He stumbled out of the fire, nearly falling on his face. Quirrell, who _of course_ was the servant of Lord Voldemort, whirled around at Harry's entrance, which was hardly as quiet as Harry might have wished. Before he could regain his feet, or his equilibrium, he was bound with thick ropes. He strained against them, but they were strong enough not to budge. He exhaled sharply, watching Quirrell, whose back was now turned to him, intently, and listening to the muffled thought processes of Voldemort's servant.

The Mirror of Desire, as Lily had called it, stood in front of Quirrell. Harry could see the inscription carved into the frame. _This_ was Dumbledore's final obstacle? But, in a way, it made sense. There were no overt threats in the room, but time had wings when you were sitting before the Mirror, wasting your life away, pining. There was no threat of force needed.

Harry rather suspected that there was a trick of some sort involved in all this—that the only way to get the stone would be through the mirror, and the mirror itself would work to frustrate such attempts. In the meantime, he knew it was an absolute necessity to distract Quirrell, to keep him from figuring out how the Mirror worked.

Was he the gloating sort of villain? Harry wondered. The sort who monologued, given the chance? Time to see.

"I don't believe it," Harry said, shaking his head—the only part of his body free to move as he pleased. "All along, _you_ were the one after the stone? I mean, at first, I suspected you, but Hermione convinced me it had to be Snape—"

"Oh, Snape. So useful to have him hanging around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-p-poor, st-st-stuttering P-Pr-Professor Q-Quirrell?"

Ah, yes. Of _course_ the stutter was fake, too. Well, at least that would make this conversation easier to endure.

"But—" he widened his eyes in a false display of innocence, "but didn't he try to kill me? During that quidditch match?"

Quirrell laughed, rolling back the sleeves of his robe. "Oh, no. _I_ tried to kill you. And I would have managed it, then and there, if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you."

What. Okay, he owed Hermione an apology. Snape's muttering _had_ been a spell directed towards him. He shouldn't have dismissed her intelligence.

"Snape was trying to _save_ me?" he asked, his shock genuine now. Sure, his mother had said they were childhood friends, but to go so far as to save the son of an enemy…? "I thought he _hated_ me."

"Oh, he does," Quirrell said, voice laced with amusement. "Heavens, yes. Wouldn't shut up about it, even in staff meetings. But he never wanted you _dead_."

"But…but I saw him threatening you, after the quidditch match," he said, frowning. That part had never made sense to him. "And in the staff room, the week of my detention—I heard you sobbing, begging for someone to go easy on you…."

"Ah," said Quirrell, his voice a bit shaky, as it had been then. "Well, that was not Snape. My master is a great wizard, and I find it… difficult to live up to his expectations."

Harry's mouth went dry. This did not bode well. "Your master?" he prompted, a bit faint.

"Yes. I met him in the forests of Albania, as I was doing a tour of the world, learning a bit before taking up a new position as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor here. I was so naïf then, so idealistic, full of mistaken impressions about the nature of good and evil. But he showed me the truth: there is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it."

Harry thought about his own, personal experiences with power, and about Loki's. He thought about good, and evil. Sometimes, the line was very difficult to draw. Other times, however, it was straightforward, which meant that good and evil _did_ exist.

"And what of Captain America?" he asked. "Do you mean to tell me that he isn't good? He has power, but uses it only to help others."

Quirrell scoffed. "And that made him weak. He would have been able to help many more, if he hadn't let his moral code—"

"But he is a good man," Harry continued, voice very soft. "And what of Hitler? He is the go-to example, whenever anyone wishes to define the nature of human evil. What of Grindelwald? What of Stalin? Good and evil are _real_. _You_ don't have to be evil, you know. You could turn back, reject your newfound Lord, help us fight him."

Quirrell turned to face him, a twisted smile on his face, cold and heartless. "Are you afraid, Harry Potter?"

Yes. Harry was afraid. But not of the things Quirrell thought. Not for the reasons he suspected. He remembered what had happened in the forest, that sense that maybe his mind wasn't as stable as he'd previously believed. He swallowed, hard.

"Good. Now, shut up, Potter, and let me think."

Harry wondered if he could somehow get away with continuing to speak, but there was a lot to think about, and much to keep track of, to remember.

"I don't understand…is the Stone _in_ the mirror? Should I break it?" Quirrell murmured to himself.

Or…_not_ to himself. Harry's heart began to pound, as he heard an answering voice hiss from Quirrell's turban (then _that_ was the reason for it).

"Use the boy…use the boy…."

_**Don't**__ use the boy_, Harry replied, but silently. This was a very undignified position to be in, but he hadn't had the time to recover from his journey through the fire before he'd been incapacitated. He had an excuse.

His scar twinged, and he inhaled sharply, again. There, and gone. Voldemort nearby—he'd already guessed, but he hadn't thought that Voldemort could be this close without such a reaction as he'd had in the Forbidden Forest.

He thought fast, in those moments where Quirrell was approaching him to manipulate his bindings. What to do?

_I shall look and lie about what I see_, he thought to himself. _Few even suspect me, and I, unlike him, know the nature of this Mirror, and can come up with a better lie. But…at the same time, I must get that stone, myself. Think! How do you get the stone from the Mirror?_

"No funny moves, Potter," warned Quirrell, pointing his wand at Harry's ankles, where the bonds fell away. Those on his wrists remained, but he could walk, now. He supposed that Quirrell wasn't taking any chances. Pity.

_What I want most, at this moment, is for Quirrell and Voldemort not to acquire the stone. Get the stone before Quirrell, and Ron will not have suffered in vain. Get the stone before Quirrell, and we might have a bargaining chip. Get the stone before Quirrell, and we might yet escape this._

He stopped before the familiar Mirror, eyes closed. He could _feel_ Quirrell's disapproval—_what's taking __so__ long?_

He opened his eyes, and stared at the Mirror. His mirror self gave a triumphant grin, before holding up a small red stone (deceptively small, the size of his hand) which had been in its pocket. The blood-red stone gleamed in the torchlight. Ruby? Garnet? Some other, blood-red stone? The reflection cocked its head, gave a knowing smile, and then nodded, the hand falling back to its side, where it shoved the stone into its pocket.

And Harry's pocket felt heavier, although the pants inherited from Dudley were huge, and loose, with sizeable pockets—he'd noted that only an hour ago (could it really have been such a short time?). You would not know it by looking at him, but Harry could feel the weight of the Philosopher's Stone now nestled deep in his pocket. The reflection nodded, and waited, but it wasn't long before—

"Well. What do you see, Potter?" Quirrell demanded, and Harry frowned.

He turned to Quirrell. Not the truth, but also not what he'd seen before—nothing that had ever been true. He couldn't afford the enemy knowing any of his weaknesses, no matter how plausible his original desire was. "I—I see myself accepting the House Cup from Dumbledore. I've won back all the points we lost, and gryffindor likes me, again."

Quirrell huffed, shoving Harry away, with an, "Out of the way, Potter." But then a second voice spoke, muffled by the thickness of the turban.

"He lies…he lies…." Harry's heart began to beat a bit faster, a bit harder. How could he know? How could either of them possibly know?

And then he remembered the feeling, the way that the cloaked figure in the Forbidden Forest had breached his mind, had tried to read it. He shoved up thick walls, but it was too late for that precaution, now. _Voldemort could read minds._

"Potter! Don't lie to me! Tell me what you see!"

_Do you take me for a fool_? he silently replied. He continued his retreat, as he felt something, an ache, and then burning, fill his veins, luminous silver trailing down his arms and legs, circulating through his body. It reached the bonds around his wrists, and they burnt away.

"What is that?" demanded the other voice…Voldemort's voice. It shook. "What is this magic you are using? Answer me!"

Mother's love and protection was made of silver fire, but it didn't burn Harry, and thus he barely thought twice about it, despite his dread of the high temperatures of Hagrid's cabin.

Tension built in his scar, which began to burn, as if reacting to Voldemort's presence. Up until this minute, Voldemort's presence had been hidden, the effects of his proximity, muted. But, no more.

The burning intensified as Quirrell approached, and the voice said, "Let me speak to him…face to face…."

"But Master, you are not strong enough!" protested Quirrell, which Harry would have considered the sort of statement that an ordinary evil overlord would consider deserving of a death sentence. _How dare you question my strength, minion!_

"I have strength enough…for this," replied the other voice, instead, and Quirrell reached up to unwrap the turban. With every layer that fell away, the pain of Harry's scar seemed to intensify thrice or more. He barely noticed as Mother's armour solidified around him, changing colour, as it did, from gleaming silver to black and green, lit by an underglow, the sort created by a blocked light source.

Loki's armour. Or rather, a mimicry of it. But Harry didn't see it. The pain was so intense, he was sure that it would kill him, perhaps already had. But slowly, he seemed to adjust to the pain. Not swiftly enough. Too much more of this, and he'd surely break.

_The only way—_

No! He thought of Ron, and Hermione, how hard they'd fought to bring him this far. He thought of the warning, the portent of danger, he'd felt towards Loki's mantra, the sense that it might be the road to madness, the thing he could least afford right now. He thought of Thanos, and winced.

Somewhere beneath him, within him, the void lurked. He could almost hear it laugh.

No! It was vital that he remain in the moment.

The turban was taking forever to unwrap. Why hadn't it stopped already? When the turban was gone, the magic that was muffling and hiding Voldemort would also go. Harry would lose that protection, sure, but at least the pain would level out. He'd find a place of calm, within himself, and he'd ride it out, or fight it off, or something—

He couldn't think. Where was he, exactly? Why did it feel as if he were falling apart?

_The only way not to break—_

The turban came away. A face looked back at him, from the back of Quirrell's head. A face with two slits for a nose, and red irises. This must be Lord Voldemort.

"Harry Potter," said the whispery voice, no longer muffled, but clear, high, and sharp. "At last, we meet."

The pain was leveling out. He could _do_ this.

"See what I have become? Mere smoke and vapour. I have form only when I share the body of another. But there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. You saw faithful Quirrell, drinking unicorn's blood for me in the forest. All to bring us to this. He could not retrieve the stone. But you have your uses, too. Now, why don't you give me that stone you have in your pocket?"

Harry continued to back away, even though, as it occurred to him, he had no way back through the flames. Perhaps the lingering effects of the potion would—

"Do you think you're brave, Harry Potter? I killed your parents. They died begging me for mercy—"

The pain had leveled off. "Liar," he hissed. He didn't know much about James, but he knew his mum, and he knew she'd never do such a thing. His lie-detecting sense was silent, which he knew, instinctively, meant that here was one of the rare liars skilled enough that he couldn't read them. He straightened his back, to stand tall, and began to focus magic into a buckler, the same he'd started to form in the Forest.

"Yes," agreed the dark wizard. "You're right. Your father died first, trying to fight me off, and he showed amazing courage and loyalty—I always value loyalty—trying to buy your mother time to escape. But your mother needn't have died; she was trying to protect _you_. Give me the stone, if you don't want her to have died in vain."

He didn't need to ask his mother what she'd prefer. He knew that she wanted to protect him, and in this case, handing over the stone would probably still not be enough to save him. Either way, it didn't matter. Handing over the stone would be the dishonourable, minion-villain, _evil_ thing to do. Loki had come to Earth to get the Tesseract for Thanos, after all. (Why was it always little rocks?)

_What would Thor do?_ he asked, for perhaps the final time. He closed his eyes, to consider. Thor would destroy the stone, rather than see it fall into Voldemort's clutches. And if he couldn't…he'd at least ensure that the enemy couldn't get to it.

With his free hand, Harry reached for the stone in his pocket, knowing he'd never create a replica that could deceive the man who could even read minds. Voldemort clearly knew things, could perhaps sense the stone's innate magic, even as Harry could. He'd never fall for a fake. But Harry could place protections of his own on the stone, against its use, and against it being stolen.

"Never," he said, fixing Voldemort with a level stare. He was unfazed by the so-called Dark Lord. He'd seen worse, had fought worse, had bested worse.

At his words, or perhaps his calm, the pain in his scar intensified.

"You dare—! _Crucio_!" cried the most feared wizard of recent history. A jet of light erupted from Quirrell's wand, pointed backwards with amazing dexterity at Harry.

The buckler was still forming; there was no way to block the attack, and perhaps the sudden burst of fire in his scar slowed his reflexes. The jet hit him straight on, and this—

He'd felt more excruciating pain, perhaps, but if so, only in one place. He'd broken then, been broken and moulded and recast into something twisted and wrong. He'd broken, despite his best efforts, not even realising it at the time. But it hadn't been the pain that had broken him. He could make it through the pain. It was making it very difficult to think, to keep track of what was important, what he must and must not do, but…he just had to remember that—

_This is a bad idea. I mustn't use the mantra. Remember what the Sorting Hat said? That way lies madness!_

—_the only way not to break—_

_No!_ protested a part of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Ron.

—_is not to care!_

He didn't care. He didn't care. He didn't care. Sure, it hurt, but pain was an obstacle, and he'd just beaten an obstacle course, with the help of his friends. He would not fail them.

Loki could feel Thanos's influence, seeping from that corrupted corner of his mind. He created a wall, covered it in wards, and blocked off that corner, determined to at least buy himself enough time to defeat _this_ enemy. Or, perhaps, for Dumbledore to come. Worthless old man. Where was he, now? How could he be so easily tricked?

_Absent when it matters. Remind you of anyone?_ a voice in his head mocked, and he was beyond trying to figure out whether or not it was his own.

The buckler solidified in his left hand, all fake enameled wood, steel, and leather, its falsity betrayed by that same inner radiance as underlay the battle armour he now wore. He split his attention between forming a weapon, building a strategy, and keeping an eye on his opponent. At least it was only one opponent. Those were very good odds, indeed.

The pain, though….

Loki had the sense that the curse Voldemort had cast hadn't yet run its course when he'd convinced himself that it didn't matter. He could work through pain; he knew that fact all too well. The pain was still there, eating away at his mind, causing the occasional muscle spasm, but he could work through it. He knew he could.

Dumbledore was not coming to save him. Perhaps he'd known that fact all along. Hermione and Ron must not come looking for him; they were, after all, mere children, and could never hope to fight an adult wizard—

Loki raised the buckler to block a nonverbal spell, and raised an eyebrow at the skill _that_ must display. He'd never seen a Hogwarts professor use nonverbal magic, although…in a school, they probably were used to verbalising and explaining everything they did.

Each spell that it countered hit the shield with a jolt, as if a physical blow had landed. The spells seemed to pack quite a punch.

He analysed his magical reserves. Realised he hadn't been working hard enough on building them; they were nowhere near as deep as he was accustomed to. Forget any of his usual strategies—illusions, doppelgängers, and the like. He just didn't have the energy. Perhaps some of the spells he'd studied in the very beginning – elemental magic, of the lowest tiers, shields, all the weakest spells he'd outgrown long ago… he thought that he could still use those. And he _did_ have the benefit of centuries of combat experience. Voldemort couldn't possibly claim _that_.

He was, after all, only human.

Unlike the shield and armour, the blade that materialised in Loki's right hand retained an almost crystalline, silvery cast to it. Looking at it, you would not be able to decide whether it were made of metal, stone, or pearl. He could feel it solidify in his hands, knew when to glance down to confirm that the whole had solidified.

"A blade?" Voldemort sneered, his lip curling in distaste. "Now, you resort to _muggle_ means of combat?"

Loki smirked. The fool had no idea. "Oh, believe me. This is no _muggle_ form of combat."

He blocked another stunning spell with the shield, felt the pain in his scar intensify. Noticed that Thanos's influence had broken a ward already. This was all taking too long, and the more pain he suffered, the swifter the wards would fail. Pain, in its various forms, was Thanos's way into people's mind. The way into _his_ mind.

He might have made an attempt to shore up his defences, but Voldemort, withdrawing to reanalyse his situation, as a good tactician should, cocked Quirrell's head to scrutinise his opponent.

"That magic…" he breathed. Oh. It was about the magic, again? Never mind.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees, perhaps, and snow began to fall. Voldemort must have known warming charms, because he didn't stop to appreciate how frigid the room suddenly was. A pity. Mother's fire would melt the ice he stepped on, preventing him from slipping, but Voldemort didn't have that privilege.

"Give it up, Potter!" Voldemort hissed, as if he were incapable of speaking any other way. How long had he practiced to make his voice as sibilant as possible?

Loki just smiled at Voldemort's frustration. He knew full well that an enraged opponent was one that made mistakes. Thor was easiest to trick when he was angry—that impulsivity combined with a mind clouded by rage ensured that he never thought through whether or not a trap might lurk, waiting for him. Thanos was always calm, calm, calm. And he didn't see Thor's spy friends making such a simple error.

But Voldemort? Seemed to have anger management problems. The buckler took the brunt of another torture curse (that must be the purpose of the curse Voldemort had used on him).

"Surrender now, and I will show you mercy," Voldemort offered, getting a hold of himself, and for a moment, even the snow stopped falling. Loki realised that he was close to losing his cool, himself.

_Mercy_.

"I am not interested in your concept of _mercy_," he said, softly. It was almost an automatic reply. "And I will not beg."

Voldemort forewent common sense, and attempted to close the distance. This was a mistake. Did he think that the weapon in Loki's right hand was just for show? At Quirrell's approach, Loki moved the buckler to the side enough to bring the blade in his right hand upwards in an arc, tearing along Quirrell's right arm—his and Voldemort's wand arm. The wand fell, but with a movement from Quirrell, it leapt into the left hand, instead. How infuriatingly flexible of them. He would have caught the wand before Quirrell could retrieve it, but the sharp searing pain of his scar that flared when the knife made contact with Quirrell had left his thoughts temporarily…scarce.

"I suggest _you_ surrender, little wizard," Loki said, leaning towards Quirrell. "You have _no idea_ whom you're dealing with."

Very, very true. It would be ideal if he could convince them to surrender, and that quickly. Thanos's madness was chewing away at the restraints. The second barrier wall he installed was flimsier, too hastily constructed, but that's what comes of multitasking.

Voldemort seemed at a temporary loss for words. Perhaps he was fuming at Loki's condescension. Perhaps he'd caught a hint of the danger he was now in. Perhaps he realised a very important truth.

"Well? Will you surrender?" Loki said, lightly. He was in the lead, now, he could tell, Thanos or no. He'd known all along that Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance in a fair fight.

"Do you claim to be something other than a wizard?" asked Voldemort, seeming to decide that now was a moment for a cease-fire, as he considered what Loki had said. "Are you not Harry Potter?"

Loki considered that question for a moment. "Very well, I suppose you have _some_ idea whom you are fighting," he conceded, frowning as he did. Then he smiled, again, which seemed to throw the two of them off. Good. "The question is: do you know who Harry Potter is?"

The answer to that question was, of course, no. Voldemort didn't seem to realise this, re-entering the fray as if this last exchange had all been some sort of elaborate ruse. Which, to be fair, it had been, but it had also been the truth, and Voldemort _didn't_ seem to recognise that. Loki hated being overlooked.

"Seize him!" Voldemort cried, and Loki sighed. This was growing rather tedious. It seemed that no matter where or who he was, no one would listen to him.

Possibly just as well, however. Humans didn't take well to gods interfering in their affairs.

Quirrell, against all common sense, reached for Loki, grabbed hold of the buckler's edge, managing to wrench it away. He should have focused on the knife. Knowing what would happen the moment that his defence was gone, Loki did the only sensible thing. Ignoring the pain that physical contact between even the shield and Quirrell's hand caused, and the way it intensified tenfold when the hand moved to his arms, he drew back his other arm, the right arm, positioning it just right, and then drove it upwards, into Quirrell's heart.

Quirrell staggered back, then, as Loki grabbed for the buckler, settling it back on his arm, keeping a wary eye on Quirrell, and realising his mistake too late.

The pain was caused by contact between Mother's protective magic and Voldemort's evil. But leaving the blade impaled in Quirrell's chest meant that there was a contact connection, sustained contact, between the two. An amateur's mistake. The intensity of the pain he could bear for that brief moment it took to drive the blade home, but now….

Was it growing more intense? He fell to his feet, overcome by the sudden suspicion that only the immediate danger he'd been in had enabled him to work through that pain.

Or maybe it _was_ growing stronger. _The only way not to break_—

The wards were dissolving. At least he'd lasted long enough to—

Loki fell to the floor, as darkness claimed him. Here was hoping that Dumbledore was at least a match for his mind-controlled self.


	21. Shortcuts

**Chapter Twenty-One: Shortcuts**

Thor awoke with a throbbing headache that probably resembled what humans called a "hangover", and the sense that something was terribly wrong.

He paused a moment to collect his thoughts, and to see if he could figure out what. The headache dwindled down to nothing, grace of retained Asgardian healing capacity. As he thought, he recalled what had happened shortly before him passing out (a rare occurrence; he could think of only one other time he'd lost consciousness thus, and that was the night he'd almost _died_). And with those memories came the knowledge of just _what_ emergency required his attention.

As he sat up, he noticed something smooth and silky fall off from where it had been covering him, as if as a shroud. Its transparency turned into a grey opacity as it slid off him onto the floor.

Harry's invisibility cloak. As he stared, he couldn't deny a certain tightness in his chest, making it very hard to breathe. Harry had given the cloak—a family _heirloom_—to Hermione. Why had she left it behind?

"Oh, you woke up!" said a breathless voice, sounding rather choked, and higher-pitched than usual. He recognised it instantly: Hermione.

He whirled to face her, where she stood, wringing her hands.

She was alone, as he'd feared.

"Hermione," he said, cutting off whatever rant she'd just begun. "Where is _Harry_? Is _Harry_ with you?"

Silence. Hermione rocked on her feet. He tried to be patient, but it was very, very hard.

"Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry!" Hermione wailed. "There was a room with potions bottles—Snape's contribution, you know?—and there was only enough in the bottle that let you go forward for one, and Harry told me he'd go on alone, and I—"

"You let him go on alone?" Thor interrupted. His voice was sharper than he'd intended. His hands clenched into fists around the sheer fabric of Harry's invisibility cloak. He stood, stuffing the invisibility cloak into his pocket as he did, following Harry's example, somehow unsurprised at how little room the cloak seemed to take up.

Hermione sniffled, and he saw tears streaming down an already red and swollen face.

"Hermione," he tried again. "Where is _Harry_? Did he go on alone?"

She nodded, looking miserable. She wouldn't even look up, to meet his eyes. Thor stood, swaying on his feet, and Hermione cried, "You mustn't move! Your head—"

"Harry might _die_ if we don't get to him in time!" he said, his tone automatically pitched lower, a warning. Hermione shrank back, and he tried to gather his patience, such as it was. "It isn't your fault, Hermione. But Harry needs us, now."

_He needs me. My brother needs me, and I am not __**there**__._

He didn't say this aloud, but he thought it. He thought of the danger Harry was likely to be in, and knew that, of the three of them, only he himself had the experience fighting it would take to best Voldemort, if it came to battle.

_Perhaps if Harry remembered…. _ But it was better that he didn't.

"Follow me, Hermione. Be my guide. You have suffered these obstacles before, and you know what—"

"That won't be necessary," said a third voice, and Thor spun to the doorway, as the white and black sides of the chessboard began to reform themselves. There in the doorway was a harassed-looking Dumbledore. Thor considered the idea that an attempt had been made on the headmaster's life, as he journeyed to London. It would make sense, following Harry's logic—at least try to be rid of him, completely. But a failed attempt would rouse his suspicion, and that must have returned him here.

"He's gone after him, hasn't he?" asked Dumbledore lightly, his face serene. Thor's fists clenched again, and this time, he could feel electricity gathering around them. He forced it back into his body, and then, sighing, beat out the fire it had caused.

_Electricity plus fuel equals fire,_ Tony said, sounding infuriatingly nonchalant. _It's a simple equation, __really_.

Now was not the time.

He rounded on Dumbledore, instead.

"You _knew_? You _knew_ of the threat posed by an imposter teacher, and yet you set Harry the task of defending—!"

The old man aged before his eyes, looking even more drawn and worn as he held up a gnarled hand, somehow silencing Thor in the beginnings of what had seemed a promising tirade.

"No," Dumbledore said. "I knew that someone meant to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and I knew that you and your friends were working to unravel the mystery of what guarded the stone. Never did it occur to me that it might come to this. Never did I believe that Harry would be forced to face our would-be thief alone. But I must admit, he shows great courage and promise, the making of a true hero. I am proud of him, nonetheless."

"We went to the teachers," Hermione said, breathless, eyes flooding with tears, as Thor, uncertain now, tried to consider the best course of action. Harry needed him. But Dumbledore must be the swiftest route thither.

But suppose Thanos—?

As Hermione explained the dismissal and threats of first Snape, and then Professor McGonagall, Thor pondered what to do.

Should he warn Dumbledore? But what did he know, really? That a being that might exist, somewhere in the universe, which _might_ have tortured his younger brother when he was Loki, _might_ have a way to influence Harry's actions from his far-off home, on the other side of the universe? Let's not forget that the events that provided such a connection would not occur for twenty years, yet.

And in exchange, he would have to admit everything. He would have to admit that he was a fraud. He would have to admit that Harry was not quite who everyone thought he was, and suppose Dumbledore chose to inform Harry? He didn't seem to object to making Harry into a (what had Natasha called them?) "child soldier". Such treatment as Harry had received could not be considered normal, not by Midgardian standards.

He frowned. Suppose Dumbledore told Harry, stripped him of that defence, stripped him of that innocence, denied him a chance at happiness, when at last it seemed possible?

No. He would keep silent, for now. He owed it to Harry.

"You are glad, then, that Harry has hastened into danger. Do you seek for his death?"

He tried his hardest to keep his voice level, staring Dumbledore down, urging him to look away, to back down, or to prove himself, if he weren't the mastermind of this plot.

"He shows great courage," said Dumbledore again, head bowed. He would not meet Thor's eyes. Why? Guilt? Subterfuge?

"'Rushing into danger headlong is not courage, but recklessness. True courage is persevering, not seeking out danger, but facing it when he must'," Thor recited. _See, Brother! I listened to you, even when you thought I did not._

"Wise words for one so young," said Dumbledore mildly, finally looking at Thor again. "Aristotle, I believe? 'Virtue is the mean between the extremes'."

"…Who?" Thor asked. The name sounded vaguely foreign, but he couldn't place it.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, setting off across the room, avoiding stepping on only one colour square, he made sure to keep each foot on both colours at all times. "Then who imparted such wisdom to you?"

"My younger brother," Thor said, in a level voice. Dumbledore, he knew, frowned, and turned to face him, clearly perplexed. Ron Weasley, the second youngest of seven, with only a sister younger.

"Harry," he clarified. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing more until he had reached the far side of the room. Hermione and Thor followed, taking care as they did to follow Dumbledore's lead of stepping on both white and black tiles at the same time.

Dumbledore reached up to tap the white king on the head. "Stand down, _Albus_," he said. A white glow seeped from his fingers into the stone, and the crown of the white king came away from the king's head without need of a struggle.

Yes. Dumbledore was the fastest route to Harry.

They hastened into the next chamber, hurrying after Dumbledore, in a silence that it seemed had been universally agreed-upon without conference. In other circumstances, he might have regretted that the troll was out stone cold, and therefore, there was no need to fight it. But right now, Harry's safety took precedence.

In one door, and out the other. Now, they stood in a square room with an altar on the other side, a door to its left facing the one through which they'd entered, and a lit sconce each in each of the four corners. Arrayed across the altar were seven bottles, and sitting beside them, a note written on parchment.

Dumbledore pointed at the black flames on the far side, and they died down. Hadn't he heard something about wizards who had trained themselves to cast spells silently? It must be one of those silent spells. It made sense that Dumbledore would not want to risk revealing any of the secrets of his obstacle course, especially before he knew what lay at the far end.

The fires died down, and then turned green.

_Loki went through flames_? Thor wondered, and then reminded himself that Harry was…well, not quite Loki. Not a frost giant. No cause to accommodate a weakness against heat.

The flames rose again, green now, as if Dumbledore had thrown floo powder into them. Dumbledore courteously stood aside, with a tight smile.

Thor needed no further prompting. His brother might have chastised him often for impulsive, rash decisions, with good reason. But here…every second mattered. And since Dumbledore was standing aside to wait for the two of them, he might as well go first, that someone, at least, who would stand a chance against the villain of the hour be there to help Harry.

Plentiful experience with how to land on his feet kept him from losing his balance as he came out of the fireplace. He stepped aside to let the others in. His gaze scanned the room, alit upon the Mirror of before, and, despite himself, he took a step back, away from it.

He didn't like thinking of what he'd seen in the Mirror, didn't like the conflicted feelings it aroused. The Weasleys were his family, after all (sort of). Were they adopted family? Natural family? He couldn't decide. But they were mortal, and he wasn't. He wasn't like them, and yet, he _was_. Ron Weasley. Thor. Two identities, two families, two lives, and yet _one_ individual, one identity, one _truth_.

Thoughts for another time. He ripped his gaze from the Mirror, trying hard not to think of what he'd seen, before. What was the nature of that Mirror, anyway? To unseat its victim, or to devour them whole? Harry longed for a family, and Thor had offered him one, but that hadn't seemed to be enough. Whatever family he'd seen—real or fake—it had eaten away at his brother's mind as few things had ever managed to.

His gaze landed upon the two bodies in the centre of the room, and thoughts of the Mirror fled his mind. He ran over to the smaller of the two, sprawled on his front, head turned to the side as if by instinct, not to restrict airflow. There was a man behind him—a turbanless Quirrell, but Thor took one glance, saw that the figure wasn't moving, and dismissed Quirrell as unimportant.

But he paused when he noted the sudden drop in temperature as he approached. He turned Quirrell over to see a shard of ice embedded in his heart. He paused, a feeling of creeping dread settling in his stomach. Why did he sense that this did not bode well?

He returned his gaze to his brother, seeing as the blood pooled around the wound, and on the floor, showed that Quirrell had been dead for several minutes, at the very least.

He turned Harry over with much greater care, listening for any sounds of damage done to his body. It was a good thing Quirrell was already dead. He would not have wanted to face Thor's wrath, which he was barely holding back, despite the fact that the man was already dead. How _dared_ he?

Harry had killed him. He must have. But how? Whence had come that shard of ice?

It had melted away by the time Dumbledore entered. Perhaps it had been merely a part of a greater shard, which did nothing to answer the question of its origins.

Thor shrugged, resolving to contemplate the thing more later, after he'd discovered whether or not Harry would be alright. He noticed that Harry's face was flushed and damp with sweat, and, hesitant, reached out a hand, but pulled it up abruptly as he felt the heat breathe off Harry's face. A fever. The heat must have been muted by Harry's muggle clothing, but where his skin was exposed….

His head snapped up to the entryway at a sudden noise—Dumbledore appearing. Shoving aside his misgivings concerning the old man (although, in truth, Thor was older than the wizard, but Dumbledore was much further along in his life span; it still counted), he turned to call for help. Hermione watched awkwardly from the wings, wringing her hands and rocking on her feet. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and she screwed up her face, clearly trying not to cry. Right. Well, let's leave her be for now.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir! Come quick!" he said, hesitating to move Harry, now that he _knew_ he was somehow harmed.

Dumbledore came, in great strides, stopping next to Harry to bend down, he noticed the heat as swiftly as Thor. His expression drew grave.

"We must hurry," he said, and Thor breathed a hefty sigh of relief. Perhaps Harry would be saved now, after all. "It appears he has somehow injured his head whilst fighting Professor Quirrell."

The professor turned his gaze to the body lying spread on the floor, with no cause of death discernible any longer. Thor was not about to inform him of the icicle that had slain Professor Quirrell. Let the man puzzle over it, he supposed. As long as he didn't look too deeply into Harry's background! Not that he would find anything.

"_Levicorpus_!" he cried, and Harry's body floated off the floor. Thor's eyes widened at the sight. He _had_ been intending to offer to carry Harry; he knew he could still manage, but this precluded any need. A levitation charm? It had to be. A glance at Hermione showed her muttering furiously to herself. Was this a novel spell for her?

He fell back to walk with her, offering support despite his own fear as to Harry's chances. He ensured that they didn't slow Dumbledore down.

The walk to the Hospital Wing was silent, once they'd borrowed broomsticks to fly back out the trapdoor, where McGonagall was singing an old lullaby. It was probably Scottish, although he knew he didn't know enough to judge these things. Fluffy was still sleeping; that was what mattered.

They passed as a group out of the third floor corridor. Had he been in his proper form, he would not have hesitated to lash out at McGonagall—her refusal to listen to Harry was part of what had led to this—but he knew he didn't have the authority. All it would do was waste time that Harry needed, and possibly restrict his access later on. He needed to stay in these people's good graces, in case Harry needed him.

He thought of Harry, pale and shaking, as he'd tried to formulate an explanation of just what danger he might pose, given Thanos's connection (corruption, really) of his mind. He thought of the Chitauri Invasion. If Thanos's corruption had had _any_ share in causing that…. And where had that sliver of ice come from? Suppose, just suppose, that it was all connected. Somehow, he doubted that the wizards would stand a chance against what was essentially a mind-controlled god.

And if they did, what might it cost his brother?

He needed to be there, to stay by Harry's side, until he recovered, until he could be sure that there was no threat, on either side. Until he knew that Harry was back to normal, he needed to tread very carefully. He was no one, here. Just another Weasley. And even if he could have convinced them that he weren't really Ron Weasley…well, that, too, had its drawbacks. There was no real solution to be found in that quarter, either.

He slung an arm around Hermione's shoulder, in a silent show of support and gratitude, hoping to give her strength and reassurance. She turned her face into his shoulder, and sobbed, and he glanced ahead, following Dumbledore with his eyes, as he attempted to soothe Hermione.

He needed to follow Harry. He knew that. But Hermione needed him, too. She was his _friend_, as much as Harry was family. At last, Hermione valiantly fought back her tears, and they turned and hurried after Dumbledore.

Madam Pomfrey, still awake against all sense, turned to face them as the party of five entered. Dumbledore strode over to an unoccupied bed, settling Harry gently upon it, and nodding to the school healer.

Thor watched like a hawk (like a Hawk?) as she took stock of Harry's state with a variety of muggle means before waving her wand over Harry, frowning as she did.

"He needs rest, Professor," she said. "I can find little harm to him except that he seems to have burnt through much of his energy. This overexertion has taken its toll on his body, but he should be fine after a period of rest. You may leave, if you will, Mr. Weasley, and—"

"Hermione Granger, ma'am," Hermione said, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Ms. Granger," Madam Pomfrey finished.

"But, Madam Pomfrey—" Thor protested. She clucked at him, and he fell silent, and then started again. "I need to be here. To stay here with him. I'm all the family he has, really."

By the sounds of it, the Dursleys most certainly didn't count. And Mother and Father were too far away to come, even had they known…but there were a Thor and Loki back on Asgard, younger than this one, unaware of the suffering and trials before them, Thor still brash and arrogant, Loki brimming over with envy and resentment, not yet come to a head. Even if the distance were less, they would need to understand the impossible situation that had arisen. But he remembered Father's words, that he would be alone, here, with Loki none the wiser of the past (or that was the most likely course; Father _had_ said Loki might in time remember), and none on Asgard aware of his absence.

Alone. More alone than he'd been even during his banishment to New Mexico. More alone than he'd ever been in his life. A high price, Father had called it, and he'd thought he'd understood at the time, but he hadn't, not really. All he'd known was that he would have given _anything_—

"We will inform you when he regains consciousness," interjected Professor McGonagall, swiftly. "It does not help anyone to watch them sleep. Go on, Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley, and do not let me catch you out of bed. _Straight_ to the Tower for the two of you."

Thor remembered the invisibility cloak he still had in his pocket. His failsafe. But…Loki's condition did not look good. Perhaps he would sleep for days. But Thor would not just stay back and stay away whilst he recovered. He would spend as much time as he was allowed to in the Hospital Wing, and save the invisibility cloak he still had in his pocket for the use he sensed he would shortly need to make of it.


	22. Thor Would Ask What Natasha Would Do

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Thor Would Ask What Natasha Would Do**

Thor and Hermione _did_ spend an obscene amount of time in the Hospital Wing, watching Harry, looking for any signs that he would recover. Internally, Thor berated himself for ever leaving Harry alone. After all, it was Loki's death (so soon after their mother's) that had driven him, when at last he could bear it no longer, to ask his father whether there were any possibility, any way at all, of getting either of them back.

Which had led him here. He'd left, gone back in time to be incarnated as a Midgardian, complete with no knowledge of the past until he'd reached age ten, when he'd suddenly understood and remembered everything. It had taken him _days_ to recover from the strain this had put on the mortal brain of Ron Weasley, and weeks for him to process and come to terms with all of the information.

He's borne the halving of his family for a surprising length of time, by Midgardian standards, and for not long at all, by Asgardian ones. In his time of loss, he'd turned to his friends, the Avengers. Asgardians weren't much accustomed to the idea of death, and especially not of _grieving_ for those slain in battle, as Loki had been. His _redemption_, they would have called it, some mocking, others with respect. No one knew what happened when an Asgardian died anymore, which tempered the already keen grief. Back before the Valkyries had all gone, it was assumed that those who perished in combat would go to Valhalla, and many behaved as if that were still the case. As it turned out, instead, the souls seemed to be…recycled.

He probably should have stayed with his father, and helped him bear through this, borne it together, but somehow, it had never quite occurred to him that his father even felt such childish and undignified emotions as grief. Father was always so distant…you might be justified in thinking that he didn't feel at all.

And thus, Thor had sought out the Avengers. He and Jane had broken it off, possibly because he was too busy grieving to spend much time with her—he'd rather thought he wasn't being the best…boyfriend, and she'd agreed to give him space. It was nothing against her. Sometimes, things just don't work out.

Tony had, surprisingly, been the most helpful. The assassin-spies, Natasha and Clint, were far too accustomed to death, and their enmity with Loki didn't help. If they bore grudges, they were well-hidden, but that was to be expected of a spy. He couldn't tell for sure, but he knew that they both had much cause to resent or hate his brother.

Captain America (Steve) was too busy trying to adjust, mired deep in grief, himself. And Bruce…well, he did his best, but habitually suppressing your own emotions made you less than completely helpful in helping someone else to deal with _his_. Besides, he hadn't been seen since Stark had unleashed his army of killer robots.

And then there was Tony. Orphaned at an early age (although not as early as Harry), his unhealthy habit of drinking himself senseless made him an ideal companion for Thor, despite the _huge_ disparity in their alcohol tolerance. Tony understood the complexities of grief very well, that mixture of anger and regret that characterises too much of the grieving process. _I should have done something more_, he had said, in this or that way, at varying times, to Tony.

_Such as?_ Tony might retort. _Look, I get that he's family, and family's weird, but sometimes, there's just nothing you can do._

He'd felt guilty enough before he'd learnt of _Thanos_. Perhaps (and he couldn't help hating _himself_ a bit for this) he'd been happier thinking that Loki had voluntarily betrayed them, turned his back on Asgard out of malice and spite, and that he'd decided that he didn't belong there, that he hated his _erstwhile_ family, but was strong enough to endure on his own.

Not that he'd been tortured, broken, and…well, brainwashed. Thanos changed _everything_. It made Thor realise that he'd never talked to Loki about _why_. He'd never spoken with him in that length of time between Loki's arrest and the emergence of the Aether. He'd never bothered to find out _why_ Loki had done what he had. And therefore, he'd never heard the name of _Thanos_ before this last September.

That was unforgivable. An unforgivable failure, an unforgivable shortcoming on his part. He and Loki had once sworn oaths of vassalage to one another, and it had been Thor to break them first. And all he could do to redeem himself was to help Harry as much as he could, and try to disrupt, and somehow eventually dismantle, Thanos's hold over his brother's mind.

For the moment, the most he could do was spend most of his waking hours in the Hospital Wing, with Harry. Hermione, he could tell, was more than slightly worried about _him_—he did not ordinarily have to be dragged away from _anything_ for meals, but his attention, such as it was, was fixated on Harry. Had he already made an incorrigible mistake? Was it too late?

Three days passed, and the fever began to bate. It broke on the third day, leaving Madam Pomfrey in a much better mood, as she bustled about. He and Hermione received a nod in their direction, now and then, but Madam Pomfrey, renowned for being strict, seemed to understand the reason that he and Hermione remained there, by Harry's side, for most of the day. With no exams to distract them, and no classes to attend, nothing was to keep them from doing this.

The fever broke, but Harry did not wake, and Thor knew that this would be another moment of decision, another reason for sneaking around. At the end of the third day was when Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore returned to the Hospital Wing, and Thor sat as still as a statue, as if that would hide him from their view. The most he could tell was that their expressions were grave, and their voices quiet, but urgent, as they discussed Harry (you could tell by the way they kept glancing at the only occupant of the ward).

"I've done all I can for him," said Madam Pomfrey, whose voice was clearer, and pitched louder than the others. "I don't know why he hasn't woken yet. Perhaps an injury my diagnosis did not detect. Perhaps some manner of side-effect from whatever magic he used to survive your _deathtrap_, headmaster."

Dumbledore looked troubled, frowning into his beard. "It was his mother's love that saved him, I think. There is no telling how that would manifest, or the toll it might take on young Harry. Three days should be more than enough time to replenish his energy, but…there is his scar to consider. You said that it looked agitated. Perhaps he suffered some form of head trauma."

"I can see nothing—" Madam Pomfrey drew herself up in indignation, as Hermione and Thor stared, wide-eyed, at the scene unfolding before them.

"Yes, but your medical studies are…suited to less extreme injuries. This is a very special case. Perhaps a specialist—"

"St. Mungo's has closed for the day," McGonagall reminded him. "But we should be able to contact emergency services to arrange for his—"

Dumbledore held up a hand. "That is not what I meant to say. St. Mungo's is a high-profile place. Even with someone watching him at all times, it is possible the Death Eaters might find him, and beside that…well-wishers are sometimes even more dangerous. More than that, I have heard of amazing improvements in muggle medicine. If magical means have not worked, perhaps we should turn to a muggle specialist, and see what he is able to discern, first. If that fails to work, as well, then we shall be forced to turn to St. Mungo's. Is that agreeable to you, Minerva?"

Judging by the tilt of her chin, her flared nostrils, and her tightly pressed lips, this was not at all agreeable to Professor McGonagall, but she knew her place, and would not dare to contradict Dumbledore.

"We will move him to a suitable hospital tonight, when the students are in bed, I think. The fewer who are aware of his whereabouts, the better."

"Very well, Albus," Minerva McGonagall acquiesced. "I suppose you know best, but this had better not be one of your…_eccentric_ ideas."

Thor began planning furiously. What did he do? How did he go about this?

Two of his friends were spies, and assassins, used to sneaking around. There was no love lost between Clint and Loki, but Natasha…she was less easy to predict. What would she do?

_Before infiltrating an area, it's best to know the layout of the place, if you can. Of course, that's not always possible_, Natasha said, shrugging. _If it's a public place, it's different from a private one. __Ideally__, you would want to look as…normal…as possible. I know that isn't __exactly__ feasible for you, but hey!_ Another shrug. _In a place l__ike this__—a public place—you __generally__ want to stand out just enough to be noticed, __so__ that you can call attention to those places you want it known that you were in—but not enough that people remember you. It can be a difficult balance to achieve._

_Try to blend in, in other words_, Clint summarised. _And think about the function of the place before you enter. A hospital? Well, what sorts of people __usually__ go there? If you can pull off being the sort of person who __**belongs**__ there, __so__ much the better. Fake an injury! But if you can't blend in…._

_Pay attention to the doors,_ Natasha added, hands in her pockets, now. _Sliding doors are useful, because when they're faulty they can open when there's no one there. On the other hand, when power goes out for the night…it makes it more difficult to get inside, as they're already wired, and most people know to watch a door __like that __particularly __closely__._

_Hard to get into? Did you forget whom you're talking to?_ asked Clint, sounding amused. He turned to face the two of them, looking decidedly nonchalant, as he said, _God of Thunder, right? That means you can __manipulate__ electricity. That's what powers all this stuff. If you could find a way to isolate and control the energy even after it left you, you might be able to persuade the doors to open on their own, and short out things __like__ security cameras._

_In most buildings, however, doors have handles,_ Natasha continued, as if Clint hadn't said anything. _These sorts of doors are trickier, because they __rarely__ have the ability to open on their own. On a windy day, and if the doors open in the right direction, you can sometimes pretend that the wind blew them open. But that will __rarely__ ever happen. __Mostly__? Just watch. See who's paying attention, and only open the door enough to get inside. Don't call attention to your presence, but don't try to hide it, either._

_Take it slow. Trust your instincts. Sometimes, it turns out, you do have to take risks. _She shrugged again, finally removing her hands from her pockets. She cocked her head. _Any questions_?

"Ron?" Hermione asked, sounding a bit hesitant. "What are you going to do?"

He reached into his pocket, where the invisibility cloak lay hidden. He knew better than to ever let it leave his side. He raised a finger to his lips to silence her while the professors were still here. She pouted, crossing her arms, but then looked at Harry again, biting her lip. She sent him a worried glance.

"Harry is going to get better, right?"

Didn't he wish he knew.

* * *

Later that night, he convened a special emergency meeting of his allies. Dean and Neville especially had gone out of their way to help Harry before. He needed their help, now.

He explained to them, in a low voice, about Harry's injury, and how they were moving him to a muggle hospital. All he needed from them was for them to cover his absence for him. Hermione could know that he was gone, but no one else. But if it came down to it, it was better that he were in trouble than they. He understood he was asking a lot of them, and he didn't want them to suffer on his behalf.

"We'll do our best," said Neville, looking a bit shaken, but nonetheless determined to help Harry.

And that night, Thor snuck out under the invisibility cloak, alone. He'd kept the plan from Hermione, knowing full well that she wouldn't stand a chance if what he feared had indeed come to pass. Naturally, that depended upon Harry recovering… but Thor intended to see that he did, if it were within his power to help.

And if Harry recovered… they'd learn whether or not Thanos's corruption had a hold of him. It might come down to a fight, one for which Thor had spent the past three days readying himself. He didn't relish the thought, for once, but he knew the importance of it. Just in case. Harry would not want to harm anyone, he knew.

He stayed in the Hospital Wing for hours, sneaking in and hurrying to Harry's bedside, and then kneeling beside him, to wait. He knew he was waiting for the headmaster, and quite possibly Professor McGonagall. They were his only clues as to whither Harry was being taken. Given a general area, he could use Mother's spell to find Harry, but he doubted it would be able to guide him to the other side of England, let alone the world.

He braced himself, and waited.

He had to wait for quite a long time, before they entered the Hospital Wing in silence. How long he waited, exactly, he might never know, as he had refrained from looking at his watch. They _had_ waited quite some time, until they were sure that the halls would be empty, and none would notice their departure. No one would notice the absence of a single gryffindor student from the dorms—he hoped. No alarm seemed to have been raised, at least.

McGonagall cast a quiet _mobilicorpus_ on Harry to carry him out of the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey watched them go, her gaze scrutinising, watching every step they took, as if willing them to make some mistake that would force her intervention.

They passed out of the Hospital Wing, and Thor followed close behind, trying to squeeze in after them, that he not attract attention to his presence by the strange slowness of the door in closing.

It was mostly their distraction, that they didn't expect to be followed, that covered his tracks. He could be swift, when necessary—the phrase "like lightning" existed for a reason—but it was still asking a bit much to ask him to occupy the two seconds it took for the door to slam shut, _without_ being near enough to be detected by other means.

He lagged behind, just slightly, as they wandered the halls, leading up to the Headmaster's Office. Harry's first visit to the headmaster—and he wasn't even _conscious_. Thor's first visit, and he'd have to deny ever having seen it before.

This would be more difficult than he'd initially calculated. Perhaps Loki had a point about him planning too little in advance.

The steps leading up to the Headmaster's Office were particularly tricky to navigate, but he managed, by stepping onto the step directly behind McGonagall, and hoping for the best. Again, their distraction seemed to be all that saved him from notice. He didn't like how much of his success seemed to be solely luck, but then, there was a reason no one would ever choose him for espionage.

He realised too late how they were planning on taking Harry to the hospital—or, more likely, to a nearby connected safe house—only when he noticed the fire burning merrily in the side of the wall. He noticed too few of the details of the headmaster's office in his haste, which was just as well, given that he'd almost certainly return here, sooner or later. The less he knew, the more he could honestly say he didn't know. He hated the subterfuge. Directness had always been his preferred domain, honesty. A good diplomat knew lies and truth in equal parts—the way Loki had. Now, he, Thor, was having to act like Loki, to save Loki because he'd acted like…well, Thor.

Too confusing. Focus on the moment, please.

"Kelly Hale," said McGonagall, passing through the flames last. Thor waited a few moments, counting silently, reached for the floo powder after she had gone, throwing in a handful of the green dust (and just how had they forced Harry through?), before repeating her earlier words, and hoping they were right.

He landed on his feet, as usual, looking around a dark, forbidding-looking wooden room, all mildewed floor and rotting timbres. It looked as if it might crumble at any point. This wasn't even "muggle-repelling charms". The building truly looked this way.

He was, however, confident that, despite appearance, it was not about to fall down around him. He closed his eyes, and focused, thinking hard on Harry, his brother, he fixated his will towards that almost familiar goal: find him.

Because Harry had left his sight, he could follow what was essentially an invisible string that he could roll up to his brother's side. The spell was unreliable, often giving only a general area for him to work with, but the fact that he was alone, in an unfamiliar place, meant that there was less knowledge to muddy his thoughts.

He followed the strand, as it wove its way out of the building, across a deserted street, winding towards a three-storey brick building with the occasional tall glass window. There was probably a label to the building, somewhere, but he didn't notice it.

He did notice that the doors leading to within were pull-handle doors.

No one seemed to be watching. He pulled open the outside door, and then the second one, this one with greater care, leading to the waiting room. The professors were in there, and a secretary (or whatever they were called at hospitals!) waiting for their appointment.

He was very cautious in slipping inside, but the receptionist was busy looking at her notes, and muttering to herself, and the professors were fixated upon the problems at hand, and clearly out of their area of expertise. Dumbledore might have some admiration for muggles, but he'd clearly not spent much time among them, and didn't realise that doors weren't supposed to open thus, on their own.

Or, perhaps, he was just preoccupied with Harry's safety. Thor could hope.

The woman behind the desk found what she was looking for, and said, in a voice that was too cheery for the time or circumstances, "The doctor will see you, now. Turn left at the first juncture, and you want the room at the end of the hall."

Thor debated whether to follow and slip in behind them, or whether to wait until they might have left, which, quite apart from not being guaranteed to ever happen, left him in ignorance as to what was going on.

Well, he wasn't in gryffindor for nothing. He slipped in, quietly, after them. The door stayed open for only a few seconds longer than necessary, but it was one of those that was slow to close, anyway. If luck was all that was seeing him through, he'd just have to hope that his luck would hold.

He followed the woman's instructions, turning left instead of right at the intersection, and strolling behind the two professors and their stretcherbound patient. Dumbledore was physically pushing it, which…Thor was fairly sure that stretchers weren't meant to work that way, but perhaps this was something _they_ knew, that he didn't.

Perhaps he should have asked Bruce more questions.

At the end of the hall, McGonagall pushed past Dumbledore to open the door. It swung open, and _stayed_ open, which made a great deal of sense. Thor thought that, this time, it was not mere luck that prevented his being noticed.

They left the door open, awaiting the arrival of the doctor who was going to treat Harry. Thor situated himself against a counter on the far side of the room, which he suspected would not see immediate use. Doctors needed to ask a great many questions before anything else happened, usually, didn't they? But he kept alert and ready to move, anyway. Just in case.


	23. At the Hospital

**Chapter Twenty-Three: At the Hospital**

He had the time, as they were all awaiting the arrival of the muggle doctor, to reconsider the events leading him hither. Up to this moment, it had seemed to be a series of decisions, one right after the other. The professors had arrived, and _then_ he'd had to: leave the Hospital Wing unnoticed; enter Dumbledore's office unnoticed; follow them via floo network; track down the hospital; navigate the corridors. Each time, the same question: wait, or hurry after?

And after all that, perhaps it hadn't mattered at all. Perhaps it wasn't luck at all. Perhaps he was just swift enough that no one would ever notice him squeezing in just before the door shut. At least, not while the professors were this distracted. But then, too, he'd somehow have to find a way back into Hogwarts.

And, once again, he showed that he hadn't planned this through, very well. And after all that effort his brother had gone to to teach him the lesson of needing to wait and see more often.

_Are you ever __**not**__ going to fall for that?_ asked the ghost of his brother's voice, at the most inopportune time.

He grimaced, but remained as still as possible. The professors were a bit antsy themselves, with the door to the hospital room left open. He mustn't make any noise.

Dumbledore's expression remained grave. He was probably monitoring Harry's health in whatever inscrutable way old wizards did. The prognosis did not look good. Had it been, they would not be here at all.

He avoided looking at McGonagall; despite knowing that she sort of outranked him, the urge for rebuke was still quite as strong as it had been three days ago. As it would be until either he witnessed such a rebuking, or knew that, in the end, no harm had come of her folly.

Deep, deep down, perhaps he sensed it, even then. There were enough omens, enough warnings. He'd known to plan in advance, but he hadn't known what to plan _for_. One thing was for sure: the wizards had no idea of the potential threat to their lives that Harry posed.

Thor remained silent. This was all a matter of calculated risks, hardly his area of expertise. He couldn't afford to reveal himself too soon, and lose his only chance of preventing…who-knew-what. Ideally, they would never know of his presence at all. But the ideal situation had already come and gone, and its runners-up did not look promising, either.

The doctor entered just then, dredging him out of rather bleak thoughts. His head shot up, but his hand was already on the hood of the invisibility cloak. There might have been a muffled gust of air, but if there was, no one noticed it. It seemed to be part of the magic of the invisibility cloak—it didn't hide any noise of its wearer, or make them intangible, but it itself took up little noticeable space, and muted its _own_ noise. He'd wondered if invisibility cloaks were meant to behave thus, but was reluctant to question it _now_ when he should just be glad of that little fact.

To his credit, the doctor—a young man only a few years older than Harry, if Thor could guess (and wasn't that odd; weren't doctors meant to study for decades prior to working on patients? Perhaps he was older than he looked?)—made up for the wait, slight as it was, by heading straight to the examination table, where Harry lay, unmoving.

He set to work with quiet efficiency, barely glancing at the professors, as he began to ask them questions. Thor noticed his American accent with a bit of a smile.

The professors did not answer questions very well. They didn't know of any previous such injuries, although they were possible, seemed completely unaware of the Dursleys' abuse (McGonagall redeemed herself, somewhat, by her reaction to the signs of abuse the Dursleys hadn't been able to help leaving, or hadn't cared), and didn't even know about his vaccinations history. It served to make them so highly suspicious that the doctor raised a single eyebrow, making him look very much the rebellious teen hanging out with his friends, the sarcastic quirk of the lips. He looked rather a lot like a much younger Tony Stark. In some respects.

But the doctor didn't pry too much, focusing on the injury that had caused him to be called in. He did ask the most obvious questions: how it had been obtained, how long ago, what had been done to treat it. He seemed much more frustrated at their lack of answers to these questions.

"It seemed like a very straight-forward case," Thor heard him mutter. "But without any _information_…."

Perhaps it was typical of doctors and scientists to react thus, when provided with insufficient, or illogical, data.

"Do you have anything you _can_ tell me about his injuries?" the man said, sarcasm practically oozing from his voice with a casual lack of respect. Professor McGonagall bristled; Dumbledore looked suitably grave.

"There is little else we are able to tell you besides what we already have. You must understand, his injury pertains to sensitive—"

"Yeah, yeah. If you don't have anything useful to add, the door's over there," said the doctor, jerking his head in the direction of the door through which they'd all entered.

He hadn't once turned to even look at the professors, and therefore was most likely unaware of the fierce glare of an affronted McGonagall, or the unusual severity of Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Now really, doctor, I must say—"

"Perhaps he's right. If we don't know the answers to his questions, perhaps we're merely in the way. Let us give him some space in which to work."

Dumbledore swept from the room, his mind clearly troubled, preoccupied. McGonagall hesitated, but followed, and closed the door quietly behind her.

The doctor, believing himself to be alone, for the moment, continued with his work. Thor couldn't see what he was doing very well, but wouldn't have understood what he _did_ see. He knew that that machine over there measured heartrate, and the current pattern of fluctuations was a bad, but not dire, sign. Harry's heart was still beating, but even Thor could see that the pulse was too quick.

"What sort of school doesn't keep records of vaccinations?" the doctor muttered to himself. "And these burns…there's something strange about them, too. Particularly the ones on his face, the inflammation around that scar…almost as if it's what caused the fever they mentioned. But they said something about exhaustion—strenuous activity. I don't think anyone's gone into a coma from overthinking things. Hmm…."

Thor decided to make his move. He'd waited long enough. First, he removed the invisibility cloak, stuffing it into the pocket of his current hand-me-down jeans. As before, it seemed to take up no space. Then, when he was sure that no part of it showed, he turned to the doctor.

"Perhaps I might answer some of your questions," he suggested, in what some had told him was an amiable voice. This did not change the fact that he had, seemingly, appeared from nowhere, and the doctor had not expected to be interrupted when he had thought himself to be alone with his patient. He started, paused, looked around the room, caught sight of Thor, and his posture relaxed when he saw that it was 'just a kid'. Sometimes, Thor hated being in the body of a twelve-year-old. Humans rarely listened to what "children" said.

"How did you get in here? This is an emergency room! No place for kids!"

He looked a bit flustered. This situation could not have been anything like ordinary for him, and the first of the Avengers (Stark) wouldn't appear for two decades, yet. There was no background framework of supermachines and monsters to ease the worldview-upending oddity of this situation. Thor understood that. Accordingly, this man seemed to be handling it…fairly well. Then again, he'd yet to see anything overtly magical.

"I am his brother," Thor said, gesturing at Harry without looking at him. "Our parents were unable to come, but I am here. I may be able to answer some of your questions. I ask only that I be permitted to stay, and that you tell none of my presence."

The doctor glanced at the door, and shook his head. He looked back and forth between Thor and Harry.

"You don't _look_ related—" he began.

"He is adopted," Thor said, this time keeping at bay any inclination towards rising pitch that might make him seem…weak. Unsure of himself. "If that fact is any concern for you…."

The doctor held up his empty hands. "Ah, no. No. I get it. I don't have the policy of letting spectators watch me work, but if you're family—ah, well, I wasn't working yet, anyway. Waiting for the nurses to set up IV, and gathering what data I can in the meantime. Your friends seem a bit…tight-lipped."

"They are not to blame," said Thor, pensive. "They are professors at the school Harry and I both attend…the headmaster has some influence, but it will not help him should he make you aware of their society."

The doctor's blatant boredom showed that he was paying attention to something else more than Thor. Even now, Thor was not used to being ignored. There was something of Tony's eccentric genius about this man, too, now he looked. Perhaps Harry was in good hands, after all. Even if it seemed that the man hadn't yet started.

"So, what information do you have to offer?" he asked, not looking up from a clipboard that Thor hoped was filled with notes.

"Well, I know for one that he never received any vaccinations. His aunt and uncle, with whom he was raised—"

"Hold on—" said the doctor, finally looking up at him again. "How recently was he adopted, again? You're no use if you can't tell me what I need to know."

That was fair enough, but Thor still bristled, forcing himself to calm down. "That is a complicated question, doctor, with a complicated answer. My parents adopted him when he was an infant, but…events conspired to separate us, later. He was raised by his aunt and uncle, into whose care I would not put the life of my worst enemy." Maybe Thanos. Nah. "And he…does not remember me. There is more to the tale than this, alas, but now is not the time. He has told me much of his life since our parting."

The doctor didn't make the obvious comment about the odds of one remembering, and the other not, despite them being the same age, perhaps holding it as silent evidence against Thor's account.

"My name is Ronald Weasley," said Thor. "His is Harry Potter. Professor Minerva McGonagall and Headmaster Albus Dumbledore brought him here. I snuck in after them. I am a student at Headmaster Dumbledore's school, and am not supposed to have left its grounds. But there is a danger about him of which only I am aware, and I knew that I must come, for more even than family loyalty. As I am here, I will answer what I can of your questions."

"How did he get to this state?" asked the other man, promptly. "He's in a _coma_ and no one will give me the background to know how I should proceed."

Thor frowned. "I was not there to witness what happened, but then, the only witness to what occurred is now dead. I suspect that Harry must have killed him, in self-defence. However he accomplished this, it seems to have drained his energy. The school nurse told us that it would take a few days for him to recover his energy. But she believes that he should have recovered by now. His failure to wake is what prompted the professors to bring him hither, to your hospital."

"Oh, it's not _my_ hospital. I'm just visiting, and was invited to see this case. It sounded very straightforward. Now, it doesn't." He frowned. "You're telling me that his body wore itself out? Just what was he _doing_?"

Thor sighed, and sat heavily on a nearby stool, which was probably supposed to be used to reach the overhead shelves. Or something.

"Yes. That is the dilemma. It is clear that you are unable to proceed without further knowledge of what occurred. However, quite apart from the disclosure of the required information being illegal…it is also somewhat incredible, for a man of your background."

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

"Understand that by disclosing such information, I am breaking our laws. However, as I am…_underage_ the penalty may be less severe than had the professors done this. There may also be some lenity observed given that Harry is the famed 'Boy-Who-Lived'."

The doctor frowned. "I've never heard of him."

Thor clasped his hands in front of him. "No. You would not have. You are what they call a 'muggle'. You are not a wizard."

The raised eyebrow screamed scepticism. Also, condescension. Thor clenched his fists, and tried not to set anything on fire. In such a place as this, he was given to understand, the effects of his lightning could be catastrophic for his younger brother.

"Wizards?" he asked. "You mean like—"

"I mean the wielders of magic spoken of in legend and myth. Men such as Merlin, who in times of yore remade the world with their skill and strength. Not all are as skilled as Merlin or Morgana, two of the most famed wizard and witches, but Dumbledore has been hailed by some as their truest heir, descendant, and follower. Most are less powerful, less impressive, content to hide from the eyes of those without magic, living what they consider to be ordinary lives."

The doctor had, perhaps, not been listening. He'd been fidgeting with devices at Harry's table. "Oh, _magic_." he scoffed.

"If you doubt my words, you might call the professors back in. They might, if you informed them how necessary it was that you knew the circumstances surrounding Harry's collapse, deign to show you some magic, and to explain the magical world to you. It would be, in their eyes, a necessary risk."

Again, the raising of the brow. But the doctor reached for a telephone, or something, plugged into the wall, and Thor disappeared under the cloak whilst his back was turned. He made requests that the professors return to explain more about what had happened, and spun back around to face his "young" guest, but Thor had already vanished.

It took the professors long enough to arrive that the doctor had had time to come to grips with Thor's sudden disappearance. What he had told himself could not be known.

Both of the professors came to meet him, and it was somewhat touching that the doctor made no mention, gave no hint that he'd been speaking to one of their students.

"Just what is your relation with the patient?" he asked, instead, and after they'd admitted that they were professors at his school, he'd grilled them on how it could possibly be that the boy seemed to have worked himself until he passed out. He demanded to know the circumstances surrounding Harry's blackout; any little detail might mean the difference between life or death for Harry (Thor hoped that he was exaggerating, but sensed that this was more accurate than he would like), until, at last, Dumbledore caved, gravely saying,

"Very well, I see we have no choice." And, as McGonagall glanced at him with an expression of supreme horror, Dumbledore began to explain about the magical world, the secret magical community. He told of Voldemort and Harry, the "Boy-Who-Lived". He gave the doctor what little information they had concerning the events leading up to Harry's collapse.

The doctor took quite some convincing before he believed in magic. Reluctant to use magic on the little-understood tools filling the hospital room, McGonagall had at first limited herself to spells such as _lumos_ ("I've seen flashlights") and _wingardium leviosa_ ("Nice trick. Are you going to pretend to pull a coin out of my ear next?"). But the doctor so frustrated and vexed her that she moved on into more complicated magic.

Transfiguration. _Animal_ transfiguration. She turned herself into a tabby cat, and then back. She turned his pen into a slug, but left it thus. Dumbledore conjured up a jar terrarium for the slug, and then a quill for the poor doctor. As if misunderstanding his dismay (there was now slug slime all over his papers, whatever they were), he at last replaced the quill with a fountain pen.

The doctor conceded defeat, head in his hands. Then, his head snapped back up.

"If magic is real, why can't you use it to heal him?"

No contempt for the idea of magic remained, as if a switch had been flipped. It was almost alarming.

"We have tried. However, our medi-witch, Madam Pomfrey—" began McGonagall.

"Given his fame, we thought it best to avoid attracting the attention of his enemies, making him a target by bringing him to a magical hospital, if at all possible. I would be less able to protect him outside of our school. Madam Pomfrey has tried her best, but she is only our school nurse. While a very talented woman, there are limits to her ability. But Death Eaters would hesitate to attack a muggle hospital, They would think merely entering it sullying, beneath them."

The doctor's eyes narrowed. Hands clasped before him, he turned his head to face Dumbledore, as if turning the rest of his body was asking too much. "Is there anything _else_ I should know about? It would be nice to know the exact circumstances that led to…this—"

He spread his arm in Harry's direction. McGonagall's nostrils flared.

"We would _all_ like to know that, doctor," she said.

He dismissed them with slightly more respect than the last time. A minute passed. The doctor turned to the counters, where Thor had been before. Actually, he was still there, but he doubted that the doctor had some sort of mysterious sense of where he was. If he had, he wouldn't have been surprised that first time.

"Well? Are you going to show yourself?"

Thor decided a little trust was in order. He removed the invisibility cloak, and stuffed it carefully into his pocket, again.

"What was—?"

"An heirloom of Harry's dad," he said. "He lent it to Hermione to protect her from harm. She left it behind to hide me when I was incapacitated. I shall return it to Harry when he is recovered. For his sake, please do not inform the professors of its existence."

The doctor raised an eyebrow again. "Sure, fine. I just had a thought. If there was a struggle for his life, there might be any number of injuries. Since your school apparently doesn't have any sort of padding in its uniform…hmm. What were you wearing?"

"He was wearing the same clothes he wears now. They belonged to his cousin."

The doctor spun a chair around to face Thor's brother. "And the room?"

Thor paused to remember. "Square. Stone. Very small."

The doctor nodded. "He might have hit his head. Anything might have happened. Damn!"

He sounded quite a frustrated as Thor. It was strange, to hear so much concern from a stranger. For his brother, never the most beloved, hated by Midgardians after the events in New York.

Very strange.


	24. Strange Events

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Strange Happenings**

Thor hesitated, not quite willing to admit his reluctance towards the next revelation, necessary though it was. The doctor was already looking rather out-of-sorts at the unprecedented setbacks with which he had to deal. He didn't need another added on to them.

And yet, Thor, thinking of his words that any small detail might help, knew he couldn't withhold such knowledge in good conscience. He would need to attempt to explain to this Midgardian—by all accounts, more sceptical than even the average—the reality of gods. The Avengers, furthermore, would not form for twenty years.

Which meant that any source he might cite would be centuries old. That, in turn, meant that it essentially fell to him, trapped in the body of a human wizard, to prove the reality of the Norse Gods, none of whom were even aware of his being here. Unless Father knew, in whatever manner he knew everything.

"I have a further confession to make," Thor said. He probably sounded more than a bit ashamed. This felt like being caught out in a lie, and he'd never been very good at those to begin with.

The doctor sighed, huffed, and crumpled up a sheet of paper that Thor hoped wasn't anything important. "This had better be important," he threatened, as if at the end of his patience. He scowled, and started fiddling with the machines. Whether he was actually doing anything or just trying to look busy was impossible for Thor to tell. Hadn't the doctor confessed to just trying to _look_ as if he knew what he were doing, before?

"I believe it may be. But it is rather more incredible than the previous revelation, and I do not wish to—"

"_More_ incredible?" The doctor rounded on him, suggesting that maybe he hadn't been doing anything of consequence. Maybe.

Thor took a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctor shook his head, in what was probably resignation. "Let's hear it, then," he said, with a bite of impatience that had Thor's temper flare, again. This time, he felt the sparks start before they could really form. Too hot-headed, he was. Too brash. Too reckless. And with too little control over his anger. He reined it in, as best he could, turning to face the doctor, who, after all, didn't know that he _wasn't_ speaking to a twelve-year-old human.

"My brother may not be…_entirely_ human," he said. The doctor blinked. This might be the beginnings of shock, or whatever it was rightly called.

"…'_Maybe_'…? '_Entirely_'…?" he repeated. He sounded as if he were perhaps having trouble formulating more coherent thoughts, which was reasonable, given recent revelations.

"What does…? How does—? Okay, I'm going to need a better explanation."

His voice turned amazingly level, and clear, at the end. It was as if his bluster and verbal floundering had cut through metaphorical brush, and he had now come to open, level ground.

Thor wondered what his background was, if he'd been in combat situations before. If he had, he would fare better in the battle that now seemed inevitable. He sighed, a bit sheepish now, and feeling not at all the way he thought any manner of "supernatural being" should on the verge of revealing his true nature. He remembered the pity and disbelief he'd encountered in New Mexico, and braced himself.

"I am… not human, either. However, given his different circumstances, the extent to which our situations might be considered comparable, whether he might qualify as human is difficult to discern—"

"Just wait a second!" the doctor said. "What _are_ you claiming to be, then?"

A stage of disbelief before he even heard what Thor had to say. That did not bode well. Also, his explanation was strangely long-winded, which might suggest he'd spent too much time around Hermione. Or Tony Stark. Or both.

"I am a god," he said, somehow bypassing the existential babble of before. The doctor rested his chin in his hands, as if he just wasn't sure he knew what he was hearing.

"…A _god_?" he repeated. His voice was flat. "How does _that_ work?"

Thor hesitated. He didn't know, and he wasn't sure whether the doctor even wanted an explanation.

"I…understand but little of the process, myself. This I may say: I come from the future, twenty years hence. It is a time of…'superheroes'. The Avengers, who saved the world from an attack by a host from beyond the boundaries of your world. I was one of their number. But following an assault upon my home, and the loss of both my mother and younger brother, I asked Father—"

"That's quite the sob story. Forget I asked. Look, I've seen more than my daily dose of inexplicable things today, and my view of the world has been irreparably damaged. If wizards, why not gods? And I'll admit I've never met a kid who talks quite like you. So, just give me some proof. What god are you claiming to be, anyway?"

Thor was saved from trying to figure out how he could use his innate abilities in a way that didn't risk killing someone, most notably his brother, when a high-pitched droning caught his attention.

"_Damn_!" said the doctor, and Thor turned to the graphic display of the heart monitor. They called what it was currently about "flat-lining". Which meant….

"Shit! We lost him!" the doctor said. He fumbled at some sort of tools nearby with shaking fingers, and took several deep, shaky breaths. Thor felt as if perhaps he'd been frozen clean through, or lithified.

"…'Lost him'?" he repeated.

"Flat-line! His heart stopped! He _died_!"

Something clenched tight around his chest. It became very difficult to breathe, and he doubled over, as if mortally wounded, thinking of that night long ago, when he had _himself_ almost died.

It couldn't be happening again. His brother couldn't die on him _again_.

"If there is any way in which I might be of assistance—" he began, now uncertain, and hesitant to so much as move. He found that, despite thinking himself frozen to the spot, he'd made his way over to the doctor, to his brother's bedside.

"He's still got brain activity…it's just his heart's stopped…cardiac arrest. I could restart him, but we weren't expecting—never mind. I'll call for the equipment. It will be too late by the time it arrives—and where the hell _is_—"

He had a sudden suspicion. In that brief time when he'd been adjusting to suddenly remembering everything about who he really was, he'd done _some_ research in the library in town (Loki would have been shocked, and perhaps a bit scandalised, to learn this, and he resolved to somehow protect this secret), where he'd found a book on 'Norse Mythology'. Or several, rather. He hadn't read far into any of them, but one idea had stood out to him that he'd never heard mentioned at home: the Norns, who wove the fates of men and gods. Suppose they existed? Father might know for sure, one way or another. If they were real, he'd never encountered them, but he knew there were many such beings that he'd never encountered.

Now…well, he could almost hear cackling as _someone_ unwound a spool of Fate. Or just _how_ did you restart a heart? Wasn't it with—?

"I don't suppose you wizards have a spell for controlling electricity, do you?" asked the doctor, looking down at his clipboard, but in truth thinking furiously. Thor froze.

"I have never heard of such a spell," he said. "However, as I am the God of Thunder, perhaps I might be able to assist you more directly?"

Blue lightning gathered around his hands, and the doctor, as if sensing the anomaly, turned to face him. Stared.

"Can you—can you control that?" he asked, sounding rather faint.

"I am the God of Thunder," Thor repeated, as if the doctor might possibly have forgotten.

In response, the man stood aside. "Right, well this is… a bit specific, I suppose. I'll…uh…talk you through it?"

For the first time, he seemed at a bit of a loss. Thor sensed that, perhaps, he'd convinced the man. There was a moment's pity for one whose worldview had been upended twice in the space of less than half an hour.

There was a brief period of silence, as the doctor concentrated on guiding Thor's hand to the right spot, seemingly oblivious to what he was doing, perhaps lost in thought. Perhaps he was thinking about a specific problem, the one he named after specifying voltage and finishing off his other instructions.

"It's odd," he mused, watching with evident fascination as lighting drifted down Thor's hands, concentrating in his index finger, which was positioned just so, and Thor didn't dare to move it. He said nothing, focused on the task at hand. The doctor seemed to take this as invitation to continue.

"The nurses I sent for to help me set up the equipment. They never came."

Thor glanced at him. "It is possible that the professors intended to minimise the number of people who were privy to knowledge of existence of the wizarding world," he explained.

"Yes, well, if I had had help, I might have realised that the machine was malfunctioning before it came to this. Why would—?"

"Magic tends to interfere with modern technology," Thor interrupted, sure of what he was going to ask. "Anything invented in the past millennium, and since the witch hunts, in particular."

Basic knowledge, accumulated by asking questions, and belonging to a pureblood family with a long-standing history. The doctor grimaced, but turned back to the heart monitor. Thor felt the tightness loosen its grip of his stomach when Harry's heart began beating again. The doctor also seemed to relax.

"So…'God of Thunder', eh?" he asked, glancing back and forth between Thor and the heart monitor, which seemed to at least have escaped the destructive effects of magical proximity. Thor nodded, and the doctor frowned.

"…_Which_ God of Thunder, exactly? There are a lot, I'm sure. Zeus? Jupiter? Thor?"

Thor glanced at Harry, saw that Harry was now breathing, which was a very good sign, and looked back at the doctor.

"They say that Zeus and Jupiter are different names for the same god. I have no way of knowing for sure, having never met them, but—"

"You didn't answer my question!" the doctor protested. He rubbed his temples, and turned back to Harry. At least he was diligent. "Well, if your protest is that you've never met the Greco-Roman gods, then…and you didn't deny that last one…."

Harry's heart slowly regained its normal tempo, as if it had needed to stop, in order to restore Harry's body to its normal state. Tony might have had some comparison to make concerning this situation and computers. It seemed likely. Thor frowned.

"Anyway, Zeus's title is the 'King of Gods and Men'. Not really 'God of Thunder'. Hmm." The doctor was still thinking, even as he monitored all of Harry's vital signs single-handedly. At least whichever ones he had access to. Quite apart from knowing nothing about computers or medicine, it had changed a lot over the course of twenty years. How the doctor could do all these things at once was a bit of a mystery.

"You're _Thor_!" exclaimed the doctor, snapping Thor out of thoughts he hadn't realised he'd wandered into. The threat of Thanos still loomed, particularly now that Harry seemed to be on the road to recovery, but it was impossible to plan for. What should he even expect? He was operating under the mere _assumption_ that Loki had been mind-controlled when he'd attacked New York…wasn't he? Or rather, that Thanos was behind it all.

"My name is Stephen," the doctor continued. "I suppose, if I'm not on first-name terms with a _god_, who _would_ be worthy?"

Thor said nothing, thinking of the exile that had served as a catalyst for all that came after—or at least, had _seemed_ to. If he'd been less proud, would Loki have been happier, less bitter, less jaded? Would he have fallen from the Bifrost?

The doctor frowned, but continued, as if a thought had just occurred to him, when Thor knew it hadn't. This man seemed too sharp to overlook such.

"Say, if _you're_ a god, then does that meant that he—?"

Thor sighed. "Perhaps."

"_Perhaps_?" repeated Stephen, incredulous.

"I do not know everything," Thor reminded him. "His example is, as far as I know, unique. My father sent me back in time to be incarnated as a Midgardian, but I retained everything—from abilities and personality, to even my mind and body, that made me who I am. I lost my memories, but recovered even those, and my identity, when I turned ten. I am merely a god clothed in human flesh—"

"That's a creepy way to put it. You're an avatar. That's a Hindu term. Their gods did that sort of thing often enough for them to have a name for it. Krishna, I think…? Use it. It's less creepy than how you put it before."

It was probably telling of something that Thor didn't understand why Stephen found his description "creepy". He shrugged, brows furrowed, as he resolved to ask Hermione if she knew the term. Someday. When he at last told her the truth.

Since _when_ was _he_ the liar, exactly? But it wasn't quite a lie….

"As for my younger brother…" he trailed off, thinking about how best to phrase this, particularly whilst avoiding mentioning the Chitauri Invasion, or…other unpleasant events. "He was slain defending Asgard, but when I asked Father, he told me that he had been reincarnated in the past. I volunteered to follow him. There is no way of knowing to what extent our situations are similar."

Stephen stared between the two of them. "…He _used to be_ a god," he said at last.

_And might yet be._ Thor nodded.

"One further precaution. I feel that I must warn you that—"

He was interrupted then, by, of all things, Harry sitting up and opening his eyes. Thor tensed, as he turned to face him. After only a couple of seconds, the internal luminescence faded into a familiar, quasi-luminous sky blue.

This could not end well.


	25. Rematch

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Rematch**

Doctor Stephen Strange had been having a rather… _odd_ day. Or rather, his day had been completely ordinary until the gaggle of wizards had shown up, destroyed any semblance of logic or world order, merrily trampled over his carefully-established beliefs, and then left him to single-handedly run the hospital room (granted, he was rather…alarming, and often scared off the staff where he was invited to work).

Then, enter the Norse _gods_. Thor, the God of Thunder, with the same red hair and blue eyes as in the basic book of myths he'd checked out from the library at home one rainy day when he'd been bored. And then… who was the other one? The one who might, or might not, be human? He'd woken before Stephen could _ask_.

And what had Thor (sure, why not?) been saying before he'd been distracted? He'd been giving some sort of warning; it must have been important.

"Harry Potter", the "Boy-Who-Lived" hadn't noticed them yet. Although his gaze was fixed downwards, at himself, Stephen could still see an eerie blue glow around his eyes before it seemed to die off.

The Boy-Who-Lived (wizards and their stupid names) frowned, staring ahead, as he reached towards his chest, where his heart had recently been restarted. Good to know that all of his study had had its use.

"This energy…" he said, and Stephen blinked. Something about that voice set him on edge. He shivered, but wasn't sure why, and desperately hoped that the _twelve-year-old child_ wouldn't look his way.

The twelve-year-old child who might also be a god. And who was Stephen but a lowly neurosurgeon? He shouldn't even be here; this job had doubtless been intended for someone else; was it his lack of readiness that had killed the boy, before he and the boy's brother had dragged him back? He was far out of his league on this one; he should've just gone home.

Instead, he strained his ears, listening, as if some sixth sense were warning him of dire consequence, should his attention stray. The boy seemed still unaware of anything else, as Thor warily fell back into a rather defensive position.

"…Not dead," said the black-haired boy. "How is it that I do not recognise this energy? Am I not aware of all forms of magic? Yet this is not the magic of home, or even that of wizards…what is it?"

He reached out a hand, expression pensive and almost troubled, but as each of them stayed sitting or standing as they were, the index finger slowly crooked around to point. Straight at Stephen. The boy's head snapped to follow the direction indicated by the finger, as if it were some manner of magical compass. Impossible, right?

Impossible, as women turning back and forth from tabby cats, and his slug-pen.

"You," said his erstwhile patient, fixing a disturbing and vacant stare upon him. Stephen refrained from swallowing. Perhaps he was the hare that spotted the snake. "What manner of magic is this?" His voice was sharp, and harsh. Stephen paused, frowned, tried to figure out what Harry (or whoever) could mean. He knew nothing more of magic than he'd witnessed tonight.

"Well," he said, reassured by how level his voice was after everything that had happened tonight, "a professor _did_ come in here a half-an-hour ago, and turned my pen into a slug—"

"I mean—" the boy cut him off, and Stephen did his utmost not to childishly glare back. "What manner of magic do you practice?"

Stephen blinked. He could feel Thor's attention shift to him, but he was too busy frowning, stunned, trying to puzzle out where the hell _this_ idea had come from.

"I can't use magic," he said, glancing at the youngest occupant of the room with a furrowed brow and a frown. "I don't know why—"

"And yet somehow you used _magic_ upon me!" Harry said. Stephen didn't see him get to his feet, even though he'd been watching the whole time. Something about this whole scenario felt…wrong. He swallowed, hard, wondering whether Thor understood. Had that been the warning? Everything seemed to now be escalating very fast. His head was spinning, which was not at all conducive to formulating a decent response to the question thrown at him: "What was it? Answer me!"

Okay, this time he was justified in not noticing what had happened, too busy trying to think of how to respond. Still, he thought it should have taken much longer than it had for Harry (allegedly too injured to move, on the verge of _death_; he _had_ died) to reach Stephen, who had backed away from the bed to speak to Thor.

And, speaking of, "Harry" seemed to have that odd, old-fashioned(?) speech that Thor had, and the professors didn't.

He should have given some sort of answer, but he was too busy trying to figure out a hundred things, and puzzle pieces were falling into place, and this didn't look good—

He didn't notice the blade, which made it a _very_ good thing that Thor had been paying attention (why had he waited until now to intervene?). He knew that Harry hadn't had any weapons when he'd been brought in (as if that would have escaped the attention of a nurse for three days!), which meant that said sword(?) was made out of magic. That was really unfair. What was the point of even disarming someone who could just make _more_ weapons?

Thor had stopped the weapon's inexorable…_exorable_ approach by grabbing hold of his brother's arm. He followed up this admittedly impressive move—more impressive than catching a punch, probably—by wrenching the sword-dagger thing out of Harry's hands.

This was a pointless move, Stephen could have told him, except that, with the realisation of how close he'd just come to dying, he was finding it strangely difficult to speak. He thought he might have sunk to his knees at this point, but his self-awareness was not at its best. He just sat there, trying to catch his breath. He could feel his heart racing.

"Who dares—?" began not-Harry, which was a laughable statement.

"You do not recognise me, then?" asked Thor. "I thought that, surely, you would remember…. Have you forgotten, Harry? Ron Weasley, your best friend, who swore to defend you?"

No recognition—to either name, which just confirmed what Stephen had already suspected. Could Thor be _that_ clueless?

Huh. Well, apparently he noticed _that_, because he threw Harry to the side, and _another_ blade dissipated before it could form. Well, that was friendly.

Stephen thought that he should probably just stop thinking, and watch. His thoughts lacked their usual clarity and sharp wit.

"Who has done this to you?" Thor demanded. Silence. Not-Harry might not even understand what was being asked. This fact didn't seem to occur to Thor, either. But the next question, evidently, cleared everything up for both of them. "Was it _Thanos_?"

That was a new name. Stephen hadn't heard it before. He would have expected the name to be "Voldemort", or "Quirrell"—those were the men he'd been told were responsible for Harry's state when he arrived. Had the professors deliberately misled him? Or was there something that they didn't know? The name bore a striking resemblance to the name of the Greek god of death. Was there an inter-pantheon war?

Thor must have been right; there was a moment when not-Harry's eyes widened, but he otherwise froze, and then it was _gone_. Such a short time. Easy to miss, but the reaction was there, if subtle, subtle, subtle.

Just as subtle as, say, the half-formed blade suddenly flying in his direction. He surprised himself by ducking in time to avoid it hitting him anywhere important. Thor's gaze snapped over to him, to ensure his safety, or perhaps to apologise—who knew? Not-Harry took advantage of his distraction to stand from where he'd crashed into the far wall, gathering some sort of ominous bluish energy in his hands. It probably was nothing good, and Stephen wanted to warn Thor, but found he still seemed incapable of speech. Possibly because the kid had maybe just tried to kill him…again.

The floor shuddered under their feet, and the tile of the room began to bulge up under them. Harry disappeared, and Stephen thought of that odd cloak that Thor had hidden under. Only, Thor still had that cloak, didn't he?

Not-Harry flickered back into view a second later. He was a lot closer to Stephen than Stephen was comfortable with. He wished, in that moment, even that he _did_ have magic, because this was a three-person fight with only two capable of combat. He was stuck being the defenceless superhero sidekick. He refused to be Robin.

He didn't have much choice. Not-Harry was convinced that he'd used some sort of magic, and seemed paranoid enough to assume that it was something dangerous, something designed to harm him. He wasn't listening to reason.

Or, was the real problem stemming from elsewhere? Was he just looking for an excuse to attack someone? Just _whom_ had Stephen saved, anyway? He reminded himself that the Hippocratic Oath was not a pick-and-choose affair. That, somehow, did not make any of this easier to stomach.

"It is I, your elder brother," Thor tried at last. "Do you remember—?"

Not-Harry laughed, and it was a rather bitter, dismissive, haughty noise. "You claim to be my long-lost brother? Have you come to take me home, then?" That was not a pleasant smile, either, but it suited the mocking condescension in his voice all too well. Why was Thor even bothering with—oh, right. Family.

"I cannot myself return, as no one knows that I came here to find you—"

Thor's fists were clenched, and Stephen was sure that his hands were behind his back because he was trying his hardest not to show that he was gathering more of that blue lightning. Possibly, he couldn't control it. Stephen wanted to take advantage of the distraction provided by their conversation, but somehow couldn't bring himself to move. He was convinced that Harry would notice any movement he made.

"Ah, such a risk! Next, you will tell me that you have done all this in an attempt to save me, is that it? How _much_ you have sacrificed for me? Well, save your breath; I care not. And you may—"

"You _died_!" Thor cried, as if he just couldn't hold it back any more. The hand that had been beginning to form _yet another_ of those weird blades ceased from its attempt. Stephen wondered if Thor even realised that the fighting had basically come to a temporary standstill while they had their little talk. "You died, and I could not save you! You died, and I could not protect you! I, who once swore to protect you with my own life, as you swore to protect me with yours! And I—"

Not-Harry turned to face Thor, eyes wide with realisation, as if seeing him for the first time. "…_Thor_?" he asked, still with that derisive undertone, but there was something else there. For a moment, Stephen almost dared to hope. That disbelief, however…what did it stem from? Doubt in his brother's love, or something? Or maybe he, like Stephen, thought it was a bit incredible for a god to look like a twelve-year-old.

The moment of shock was short-lived. This one thought _too_ fast on his feet. "And where are your friends, then? The Avengers? I recall that you needed the assistance of your entire _team_ of mortal friends, in order to defeat me the last time—"

"You remember?" asked Thor. If Stephen had to guess, for some reason, the answer the god was hoping for was a 'yes'. Why?

Not-Harry scoffed. He'd used the word "mortal", but it had been pretty clear from the start that this was god-Harry talking. Or something to that effect. Something _pretending_ to be god-Harry? Had it eavesdropped on the conversation?

"I remember a shadow—" he began, and Thor hastened to interrupt, reacting too quickly. As if he knew where this was going, for once, and was trying to head it off.

"Why? Why side with Thanos? Why did you take the Tesseract? Why did you use it to—?"

"To turn your friends against you? _That_ is your great weakness. You care too much about those you call your 'friends'. You would not last an _hour_ against Thanos—"

There was something a bit off with that phrasing. Thor seemed to agree. Even from here, Stephen could see the way his brows furrowed. Stephen slowly crouched down, and began to crawl backwards, on the floor, towards the door. The best plan was to get the other professors, but his patient was too near the phone. He wasn't doing any good here; he was a liability for Thor to protect. If he left the room, however—

"Is that why you reject us, your family? You know that Father cared. That Mother loves you. That _I_ love you. Why, then—"

"I don't care about any of that!" not-Harry shouted. Stephen wondered if they heard in the waiting room. He almost hoped not. And what was with the sudden temper tantrum?

"Are you unable to understand such a simple fact? He is _your_ father, not mine. _Your_ mother, not mine…and _you_ are _not_ my brother. Why ought I to care about any of you? You rob me of my birthright, lie to me about my—"

"I didn't know!" Thor protested. "And we _are_ your family. Family is not a matter only of blood."

He was thinking about something particular here, and Stephen, despite himself, wondered what. The mortal, human family in which he'd been raised? Or those "Dursleys" Thor had mentioned earlier?

"I care—" Thor said. Stephen could tell that he meant it; apparently, not-Harry couldn't.

"I don't care," Harry said, much more quietly this time. He stood, and formed another of those knives, and it looked as if it was time for more senseless bloodshed.

"Tell me why. Tell me that, at least," Thor pled. Not-Harry didn't seem to need to look at them to form his daggers. Good for him, not so good for everyone else.

"Why? Why do I not care? Why do I reject your offer? Why did I attack a world under your protection?

"What concern is it for you? Do you seek to absolve yourself of blame? Why ask _now_? Why _care_ now?"

Again, the fighting had stalled, even though not-Harry had finished forming his newest weapon. Stephen held his breath. Hey, why not? Superstition was beginning to seem just as valid an option as anything else.

"I always cared."

"But you never _listened_. You never noticed."

"I'm listening, now." There was an odd expression on Thor's face. Stephen watched him, keeping not-Harry in the corner of his eye, unsure if it was a good idea to move, and risk drawing not-Harry's attention. Not-Harry seemed, after all, to have forgotten his existence.

The air was, quite literally, charged with energy, which made it a bit hard for Stephen to breathe. It was just as well he was holding his breath.

Silence. Not-Harry seemed to be waiting for an interruption that never came. At last, he answered.

"Do you seek for the secret, how to outlast _Thanos_? Then, as I am feeling generous, I will tell you. He can only harm you if you let him. He will hurt anything or anyone you care about. I know you are no stranger to physical pain. Perhaps you have the mettle to withstand that. But you would never outlast his other tricks. You care too much. And _the only way not to break, is not to care_."

Then, the earth buckled under their feet again. Stephen realised that the last time, not-Harry had used this as a distraction to disappear, which must mean that he was the cause, and it wasn't the start of an earthquake. That didn't prevent him from being thrown across the room, landing hard against the shelves on its far side, where he'd first seen Thor.

Okay. Yeah, he'd probably broken a rib or something. He'd landed hard. Hey, he'd survived. He didn't like that he'd hit his head, however. He'd need to see if he'd managed to get a concussion, later. He didn't seem to be displaying any symptoms, but—

Thor looked as if he'd just realised something, which was nice, and all, but he'd much prefer it if this battle could end. Preferably without any of them dying. Stephen wasn't ready to die yet. He hadn't become a famous neurosurgeon yet, or saved a lot of people when lesser brains couldn't figure out how. He hadn't proven himself.

"I see," Thor said. "I apologise, Brother. I should have been there, to help you. That I was not shall be forever a source of shame, for me."

He pulled something from his pocket. It was too covered in electricity for Stephen to see it clearly. Stephen realised what was about to happen just too late to do anything about it. Thor crossed the room to where not-Harry stood, raised the unknown object overhead, and brought it crashing down on Harry's head. Harry slumped to the floor, and Stephen discovered he had the energy to react to events after all.

"What the hell did you just _do_?" he demanded. He forgot that he was talking to a _god_ for the moment. That was a particular complication he didn't feel like considering right now. Besides, Thor looked sheepish, shoulders hunched and all, so he figured he hadn't overstepped any sacrosanct boundaries.

"Ah," said the God of Thunder, turning to Stephen. "Well, he warned me that a figure from his nightmares, Thanos, might be able to control him, if he—how did he say it?—'used a mantra'. He said that I should hit him if he seemed to be acting abnormally, and I therefore assumed—"

"Thor." interrupted a much weaker voice, from the corner, where its owner lay slumped against the wall. Thor abandoned his attempts at explanation to hurry over to not-Harry(?)'s side. Lovely.

"I'm here," Thor said, but contrary to his words, his voice seemed somehow far distant. Reminiscent?

"I believe that I owe you an apology," continued the weaker voice, which might or might not belong to not-Harry. "Forgive me, Brother. I never meant for it to come to this."

And then there was silence, and the posture slackened as not-Harry slumped against the wall. He shouldn't have been conscious at all—why he was was a study for another time— but Stephen's admirable intellect whirred into motion, cataloguing potential injuries and traumas, any consequences (unintentional, he was sure) of Thor's assault.

Heedless of personal danger, he rose on unsteady feet, reminding himself that he might have injured himself worse than it felt right now, when he'd crashed against the cabinets. Not that he felt all that spiffy.

As he checked to see how Harry was doing now, he turned the rest of his attention to Thor. Everyone knew you focused best when you were multitasking.

"That was your brother, the god," he said, in what he hoped was a conversational voice. Thor frowned, and crossed his arms.

"He was…not himself. The brother I was raised with would not have attacked you thus. I apologise on his behalf for his actions."

Stephen shrugged, his attention mostly focused on what he was doing; he didn't keep much track of the conversation. Enough for him to remember later.

"I didn't get a chance to ask you: just which god _is_ he?"

He surprised himself with how casually he could ask this question, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps he _had_ sustained severe head trauma.

Thor hesitated, which, even in Stephen's limited experience, was not a good sign.

"He is my brother, Loki," he said, at last. Had he been human, he would have been scuffing his feet, or something, but Thor seemed incapable of prolonged or extreme embarrassment. Stephen was briefly inclined to be envious, but dismissed it almost immediately.

"Loki?" he repeated, turning aside to face Thor. "The God of Mischief and Lies?"

Thor beamed. "He is a stalwart ally, and dependable. But he does have a propensity for mischief, and he _is_ very good at lying. Perhaps skilled enough to deceive himself."

There was almost a visible rain cloud hovering overhead, as in those cartoons. Stephen caught his own thoughts, and had to shake his head. God of Thunder plus rain cloud. Yes, it seemed to fit.

"The one who causes Ragnarök?" he had to ask. Thor turned to him, brow furrowed in what seemed genuine puzzlement.

"…'Ragnarök'?" he repeated. "I have never heard this term. What is it?"

Ah. He probably shouldn't have said that. Now, however, he was obliged to answer.

"It's the end of the universe, or just Asgard, depending on which myths you're reading. There's the one in which Thor dies fighting the Midgard Serpent, and then there's the one in which everyone lives, but Asgard is destroyed. Either one, Loki sets the whole thing into motion. You should look it up."

He was wary of saying too much. Who knew if there were any truth in the idea at all? Suppose _he_ accidentally kick-started everything by telling Thor, affecting how he treated Loki, causing Loki to set off the events that led to Ragnarök?

Stephen frowned. He might not be a superhero, but setting off the apocalypse just didn't sit right with him.

Thankfully, rather than pressing for more information, Thor seemed to realise he must have his reasons for his silence, and moved on to more immediate concerns. (He seemed almost disturbingly pleased at the thought of dying in battle. Stephen had to remind himself that Thor wasn't actually twelve years old.)

"We owe you a debt, doctor. You have saved the life of my brother, twice now—"

"He tried to kill me!" Stephen said, a reaction long delayed from when it was most appropriate, but still with a need for expression. It was as if he'd said the thing as soon as it was possible to safely say, once the danger was past, and he'd had time to fully process the fact that he'd almost been killed at least twice, here, by the boy he'd tried to stabilise and save. And here he was, again, the fool trying again, not learning from the fruits of past efforts.

"He was not himself," Thor said, again, as if that fixed anything. "And we owe you a great debt. I thank you on behalf of our family, the royal family of Asgard." Stephen bit his lip to keep from reminding Thor that Loki was technically a frost giant. If Thor said he was part of the royal family, then he doubtless knew better.

_He's adopted. Is that fact a concern for you…?_

"If he does not require constant monitoring, if there are a few moments in which he might be left alone, I would repay some of that debt. Please, if you know of a place where we might talk, unnoticed, and uninterrupted, lead me there. We have much to discuss, and but little time in which to discuss it."


	26. Beating the System

**author's note (if this chapter should seem incomplete):** Be aware that it was intended to have a great many more scenes, but I got part of the way through, realised that I'd written quite a few words on this one, and that I'd need _at least_ another chapter to write the rest, and decided to stop at the next decent stopping place, assuming that you'd rather get back to Harry. But if I'm wrong, I suppose I could always attempt to write out those other scenes, and either post them as some separate sort of chapter, or add them to this one. I've tried to include all the pertinent information in those other scenes elsewhere in this fic. You shouldn't really be missing much. Just thought I'd tell you all and see what you thought.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Beating the System**

There was something about Thor's demeanour that enforced compliance. Not obedience _against his will_, or _against his judgement_, but automatic obedience. He finished checking to make sure that Harry seemed to be well enough to be left alone (as long as he didn't awaken, unexpectedly, still demented, or whatever Thor would claim was wrong with him).

Then, he stood, and, without looking around to see if Thor was following (but giving him time to hide under the fancy cloak of invisibility), he wandered through the halls with an ease that people more familiar with the hospital might envy.

It was almost aimless wandering. He was making for the ordinary check-up room, in which he'd been asked to hide his personal belongings for the night. They'd given him the key. No one else should interfere, there.

He found the room, unlocked it, pushed open the door, flipping on the light as he entered. It was quite an ordinary hospital room, nothing to see here, except for his current travel bag, which was nondescript. It had a drawstring, and fastened at the top. Although it was starting to wear out, it had served him well. Everything he'd brought from America was in there, except for the clothes, which he'd left back at the hotel where he was staying as long as he was in London.

He shut the door after Thor entered, and locked it for good measure. Did the hospital staff have another key? Almost certainly. But that was no reason to be incautious.

"Are you going to explain what happened up there?" he asked, pointing in the general direction of the room two flights of stairs above them, where Harry was. Where the professors awaited. He didn't expect the answer to be yes—there was little enough to tell, at least that Thor knew. That much was already obvious. This couldn't have happened before—all those questions Thor had asked, his shock at the appearance of this…_entity_ showed that the situation was novel for him. Which meant that he probably knew as much about it as Stephen did. And sure enough, Thor frowned, shaking his head. It was a regretful, slow, denial.

"There is but little time left in which to assist you. I must ask that you refrain from asking too many questions, but I will do my best to explain. The wizarding world, as I believe the professors explained to you, is a secret one. They would stand to lose much were it revealed that they had informed a muggle—a person without magic—of the existence of this secret society."

He paused, seeming to debate with himself how to continue, and Stephen had to force himself not to prompt him for further information with the reminder that they had "but little time".

"My brother said that you have magic, of a kind he does not recognise. If _he_ does not recognise the magic you wield, it is unsurprising that the wizards also do not recognise it. That magic cannot save you from them."

"They're going to kill me, is that it?" asked Stephen. His heart, which had had a chance to slow down following his recent brush with death, sped up again. Thor frowned again, folding his arms.

"No. There is a spell oft-used by wizards when muggles stumble across the magical world, one to remove the memories of magic from that individual's mind. It is a simple spell, difficult to use properly, but either one of those professors has the experience needed to use it thus. It is against the law to leave a muggle aware of the magical world. No matter how they might wish to leave your memories intact, the consequences of allowing you to retain knowledge of what has happened this night would be too dangerous for them to risk."

Somehow, the thought of someone able to remove his memories at their leisure might be _worse_ than if they just killed him. How much time had he lost, without knowing it? What was to stop them from going too far, and removing everything that made him what he was? His heart raced, pounding in his ears. It was too much. Maybe he couldn't handle this, after all.

"And, what? You want me to disappear before they can wipe my memory?" he asked. Thor frowned at the unfamiliar phrasing, but was quick enough on the uptake.

"Ah…no. If your memories were left intact, not only would the professors risk arrest, and removal from their positions—and Dumbledore is too great a force for good to risk such—but a team of more skilled wizards would be sent to track you down and to remove your memories in their stead. To flee would only delay the inevitable."

But he couldn't possibly be telling him this without some sort of plan to fix things, Stephen realised. He further knew that it would be best to just shut up and let Thor explain. They had little time, right?

"This past year, I have been researching the nature of memory and magic in the school library. I wished to be ready, should Harry remember anything of the past. I sought for the nature of memory, how it related to magic, and in the process learnt much of the spells used to remove and alter memories…as well as means of storing and restoring them.

"It is this knowledge that I am able to offer to you, now. I have amongst the friends I have made at school, one who is very gifted, and who would doubtless be able to perform any of those spells, if she were given the time to learn. And that is the option I lay before you: if you were to store your memories, we might, ten years hence, when school no longer occupies our minds, and we are no longer being watched by the Ministry, be able to return those memories you stored to you."

_Store_ his memories? _How_? And…this idea was crazy! Ten years from now, they were offering to give him back his memories of what had happened tonight? Who knew if any of them would still be around, then! Harry had died, tonight, killed by a man who had somehow snuck into the school. It didn't seem that safe of a location. And a decade was a long time on any account.

"How does it work?"

Thor hesitated. That didn't bode well. "You would need some manner of vessel," he began. "A small container in which to house those memories you wished to keep. But be forewarned that storing those memories means that they are no longer in your head. It will be as if you have forgotten the events they depict. It is a difficult task, but you must retain enough memories within your mind that you genuinely believe in magic, whilst storing all truly important knowledge where it cannot be lost. And you must, for the next decade, neither misplace nor in any way suffer the loss of that container that holds your memories. You must make for yourself a message that convinces you of the importance of what is contained within."

His eyes followed Stephen as Stephen bustled about the room. He'd pulled a sample container out of a cupboard with a frown, and then found a sharpie. Then, he frowned, realising that that was hardly enough for a note. Nevertheless, he scrawled on the jar itself, just a short note. There was no time to question this madness; Thor was right. The moment that the professors realised that he'd healed Harry…the clock would be ticking for them, and they would know it. They'd _have_ to wipe his memories.

_This jar contains your memories of the events of June Ninth, 1992. Do not open, lose, or allow to be damaged. Seek out Ron Weasley on June Ninth, 2002, concerning restoration of these memories._

It seemed insufficient as a notice. He thought hard for something, _anything_ that would convince his ordinary, sceptical, magic-disbelieving self to believe the note. That was who he'd be again at the end of the night. The sceptical Doctor Stephen Strange, for whom magic was all sleight-of-hand, deception, tricks. Not knowing that he apparently had magic, himself.

And no time to pursue that lead. He hated that fact, the loss it entailed, the missed opportunities. What right did wizards have to take _any_ of his memories from him?

An idea struck him with almost physical violence. He reached into his cloth bag, and had to rummage around for a few seconds before he found a blank, forty-five minute cassette, and his cassette recorder he'd used to help him with lecture notes back in college. He might disbelieve his own voice, or his own handwriting, but it would be very hard to fake _both_. Even at his most sceptical, he'd probably believe both.

His hands were shaking as he forced the cassette into the player, replaced the batteries (all whilst aware of Thor's curious eyes watching), closed the case, and pressed the record button.

"Alright, what do I have to do? How do I choose which memories get stored?" he asked. Thor glanced again at the device spinning around as it recorded their conversation, the spool on the right slowly unwinding its black tape onto the left-hand spool.

"Only think of the memory you wish to store," said Thor, "and maintain that thought. You will not know when it is gone."

Stephen closed his eyes, both to focus better, and so that he couldn't see what Thor was doing. He had to trust him. It was Thor who was warning him of this threat to begin with, and besides that…Thor _oozed_ sincerity.

He seized on the fight between the brothers in the hospital room, first. There's be little to notice if it were missing, but it was vitally important, he knew. He included the conversation afterwards, where Thor had revealed which god Harry might be, and he'd made the mistake of mentioning Ragnarök.

He nodded, and then blinked. He didn't feel any different, but he could feel something tickling his neck, and just _had_ to open his eyes. There was something viscous and slimy-looking hanging from the tip of a stick Thor was holding. Thor transferred it carefully into the small container Stephen had written his note on.

"I don't feel as if I've forgotten anything," he said. Thor gave him what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, but looked like more of a grimace.

"You have," he said, his voice grim. Stephen considered asking what he'd forgotten, and then realised that Thor had no more way of knowing than he did. He hadn't said. Well, he wasn't making _that_ mistake, again.

"Well, I should have said what memory that was. Both so that I had it on tape, and so that you could tell me."

Thor frowned at the doubtless unfamiliar phrase "on tape", but didn't seem too concerned.

"This is a cassette recorder," Stephen said, taking pity on him. "It records the sounds made around it, and allows them to be replayed at a later time."

To his surprise, Thor seemed to understand this explanation. Huh.

"I think I ought to remember our first meeting, somehow. Out of respect to you and…your brother, I suppose," he said, closing his eyes, and nodding again. Then, that memory must have turned into silvery cord, too, because when he looked for the memory of it in his mind, it was _gone_. Ah. That was…unsettling.

"Do you have a human name?" he asked. "I mean, you're pretending to be human…I don't know why I didn't ask before…."

"When I first appeared in the hospital room, I introduced myself with that name," Thor said, shrugging. "But you no longer remember that. It is 'Ronald Weasley."

Stephen stared. Thor didn't seem to fit that name. He glanced at the jar upon which he'd scrawled his message.

"The same name as on the note I wrote myself," he realised. That made sense.

"I think…if I remembered the evidence the professors showed me of the reality of magic, it would convince me of the reality of magic. And likewise, if I remembered that I was convinced that magic was real, it would convince me of the reality of magic. That means…is it possible to split memories and store only parts of them?"

It had to be possible. He was going to try it. It was the only thing to do that made any sense.

"I see no reason why it could not be done. Who is to say where one memory begins, and another ends?" Thor said, answering the question that no longer needed answering. It was, Stephen conceded, probably a pretty good point. He closed his eyes, thinking.

"I suppose I'll store the memory of knowing that magic is real, and everything you explained afterwards, up until…Harry woke up. I don't remember what happened after that. Odd."

"Perhaps, then, I should remind you that I asked of you that you remain silent, and tell no one of my presence here. I am a student at the school in which Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore work. It would be best if none were aware that I had left the grounds."

Stephen sighed. "And I suppose I agreed, before, or we wouldn't be having this conversation. And remembering this conversation should be enough for me to know…enough about you, I suppose."

He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the tickling sensation, so like that of stray hairs, that he guessed was actually essence of memories. He remembered everything he'd said over the course of this last conversation, and had hints, fragments of the memories he'd stored, reflections of them in the mirror of his mind's eye. But the real things were all in the jar. All except for McGonagall transforming into a cat, and turning his pen into a slug. All those little proofs.

But he still knew what he was doing, and whom he was talking to, because it had come up in the conversation. Although…Ron Weasley…didn't he have another name? There was something important that he'd forgotten, which made sense. That was the entire point of this plan. Still….

"I think that's all," he said, walking over to where he'd set the still running tape recorder. "Only," he paused as he reached for the stop button. "There was another name for you. I remember asking you for your human name, which means you aren't human, and that, up to that point, I'd been calling you by that other name. But, what are you? What is it?"

Ron Weasley shot him a decidedly sheepish, apologetic, _regretful_ look, and Stephen knew he'd get no real answer. That feeling had bitten and pinched and prodded him all his life, had driven him to seek for answers to questions that others ignored, needing to know as much as could be known. To be denied such knowledge…it made him question the wisdom of this plan, whether his memories might not be irretrievably lost, whether he'd erred in putting his faith in…Ronald Weasley. He reached down, and turned the tape player off.

"The professors will seek you out," Ron murmured. "And when they do, you will forget that we even had this conversation. What good will that knowledge do you, for the short time you possess it? Rest assured that it is preserved amongst your memories."

"And there must be a reason I trusted you, but I don't remember what _that_ is, either," Stephen said. "Give me _something_ to go on."

Ron paused. "I cannot offer you proof of my words," he began, his words drawn out, as if he'd rather keep them inside. "But I suppose, as you will soon forget anyway, I will tell you again. I am _Thor_, Norse God of Thunder."

Stephen stared, but for some reason, perhaps a residue of the memories he'd lost, he was inclined to believe the boy. He frowned, glancing back and forth between the self-proclaimed _god_, and his tape player.

He reached for the "record" button. "I don't suppose you'd say that again, would you?"

* * *

As the decade passed, Stephen sometimes recalled his cassette tape and the jar of memories, usually when he was moving. Sometimes, he even listened to the tape, trying to convince himself it was real, trying to convince himself that that conversation, of which he had no memory, had truly happened. His handwriting could be forged, but…in the days before even Photoshop, it was hard to believe that his _voice_ had been mimicked to an exactness.

And if someone had, _why_?

Thus, he believed. He believed enough that, although he invested in later forms of audio-video recording, and bought a CD player, and a boombox, and then an MP3 player, he refused to let go of his old walkman, and his tape recorder. He knew that, nowadays, audio was easier to fake, when it was all in midi and wave files on a computer, software on someone's hard drive. That was easy to manipulate. But no one used cassettes anymore. Now it was all about CDs.

He bought music CDs for his CD player, kept himself up to date in every way but one.

The same cassette, the same cassette recorder, carefully packed up and brought with him, in his overnight bag when staying at a hotel, and never separated from the jar of memories, either. If there were _any_ truth to what that boy—Ron Weasley—had said on the tape, or he himself had said and written, then it was, indeed, _vital_ to keep it safe.

And time slowly passed. He found himself looking forward to June Ninth, 2002, when at last the matter could be laid to rest. If the boy was still alive. If Stephen survived.

He told no one about the jar. He told no one about the tape. He considered them a well-kept secret of his, one that none of his fellow doctors suspected. He had, evidently, once believed that magic was real—enough to say it on tape. This could all be a trick, but….

Sometimes he lifted up the jar, watching the silvery substance lazily swirling within. But he obeyed his own instructions, and kept the lid screwed tight.

In January of 2002, he began his search for the whereabouts of Ronald Weasley, and encountered his first snag. There was no record of any such person ever being born. By now, he'd listened to the tape enough times to remember his casual mention of Ron not being human. How to find him? How?

He jumped at the first chance he got to go to England. He knew that he'd been working at the outskirts of London at the time he'd written his note. It seemed a reasonable place to start.

No one remembered Ronald Weasley. No one recognised the family name. And he had no idea what the boy—young man, now—even looked like.

Twenty-two-years old, something inside told him. That was how old Ronald Weasley was.

Although he still would have laughed had any of his colleagues suggested such, he followed his gut, wandering around London, seeking out places that didn't seem to fit, that stood out. He didn't know what he was looking for. It was a ridiculous, fruitless task. In reality, he was hoping to stumble into someone who knew Ron by sheer dumb luck. Or, that Ron would hear that he'd come, looking for him….

He left London quite as frustrated before, but returned near the end of May. He had to succeed, this time. He had to.

And yet, two weeks passed, and _nothing_. Even Google was failing him.

He went for a walk to clear his head, and felt something. A tug in a certain direction. For want of a plan, he wandered off in that direction. Far too spontaneous for him. He was acutely aware of the memories and tape player he had in the bag slung over his shoulder. He was carrying little of value besides. And the whole quest was very nearly a futile endeavour.

"Found you," said a voice, and he turned, to see a young man striding towards him. He was dressed in nondescript clothing, and a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up to shadow his face. His appearance _screamed_ suspicious. "Hello, Stephen. It's good to see you again." There seemed to be genuine warmth in the unfamiliar voice.

Stephen just stared, unsure how to respond. _Sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else_, perhaps?

"Yes, I suppose we should catch up, later. You haven't been to Woodfield Palace, I don't think, or even Markhaven Meadow. But it's Markhaven Meadow you've been looking for. I'll take you there. Hermione stocked up on your favourite tea. She's been looking forward to talking to you even more than… but I'm getting ahead of myself. Too many might be eavesdropping on us. Follow me. Let's restore your memories first, shall we?"

It was that last sentence, for whatever reason, that convinced him. Still wary, he nevertheless picked his way across the deserted street to where the stranger(?) waited.

"Why are you wearing a cloak and hood, if you aren't trying to seem dangerous and threatening?" he had to ask.

The other shrugged, hands in his pockets. "If you _must_ know, ever since the war, we've all become rather famous in the Magical World. It's frustrating, but it was either this or be mobbed by fans, and never find enough concentration to send out…I suppose you would call it a _signal_…for you to follow."

A signal? That tug in his…sixth sense?

"I'm going to have to use side-along apparation. You won't like it; it's not pleasant, but, rest assured, you won't have to do this very often."

There was something else in his voice, that smugness that comes only of knowing something that your interlocutor does not. He therefore did not ask "why not?".

The man could at least have had the decency to warn him about the process involved. Namely, that it felt like being compressed like a sardine in a can, or that afterwards, the whole world would seem to be spinning in rapid clockwise circles. He stumbled a bit, and then turned to glare at his guide.

"Ah. Yes, I should have warned you that the first time is usually quite unpleasant. But I did not know how you would react, as you are not a wizard. But, enough of that. Behold, Markhaven Meadow!"

He spread an arm wide, and Stephen, rocking on his feet, turned to face the direction indicated, where a quaint three storey cottage stood in the middle of…well…a meadow. As he watched, the front door of the house opened, and a woman with incredibly frizzy brown hair emerged, followed by someone whose appearance he immediately thought he ought to recognise.

"Doctor Stephen Strange," said the red-headed man, nodding to him. "We began to fear that you would not make it. You are _late_."

A moment's silence, as Stephen still reeled from the disorientation that came of the…_experience_ called side-along apparation.

"Just to make sure," said his guide, "but this _is_ the _second_ time we've met, right?"

"_Harry_," the bushy-haired brunette scolded him. "Leave off. You know he doesn't know about the time travel, yet!"

What. "Okay," Stephen decided. "Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on, here."


	27. Questions and Answers

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Questions and Answers**

He didn't immediately open his eyes when he awoke, although that was naturally his first impulse. Instead, he took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. He was lying on something soft—not as soft as the beds in Gryffindor Tower, but much softer than the hard ground he'd expected. Cold, stone floor, in a darkened room.

Where was he? There was soft light around him, but no noise. Well, there was nothing else for it. He opened his eyes, and glanced around.

This must be the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. He opened his eyes, blinked, turned his head to the side, and caught sight of something grey against a fuchsia background. Sitting in a chair next to his bed was Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, reading a rather thin book.

As if sensing his movement, Dumbledore set aside the book, with a benevolent smile upon his face. There was something important that Harry needed to do. Something he ought to—

"Sir! The Philosopher's Stone! Professor Quirrell was trying to steal it, and I—"

"Relax, Harry," said Dumbledore, with a worried frown. "I'm afraid you've been unconscious for several days, and are behind the times. Professor Quirrell does not have the Stone." _I didn't say he __**did**__._ "Madam Pomfrey found it amongst your clothes when she used the 'Switch-Out' hospital spell to replace your clothes, and handed it to me. It has since been destroyed."

"'Destroyed'?" Harry repeated. "But your friend, that 'Nicholas Flamel'—"

"Ah, you _were_ determined to do the thing properly, weren't you?" asked Dumbledore in an overly cheery tone, still with his benevolent smile. Harry's eyes narrowed. Was this all planned, then?

"You knew—?"

"—that Quirrell was trying to steal the Stone? That you were in danger? Strange, but your friend Mr. Weasley made those very same accusations. No, my boy, I didn't understand the danger you were in. I was halfway to London before I realised the place where I was most needed was the very place I had just left. I returned to help you, but by that time, you were already unconscious. I feared that I was too late."

"Too late", indeed. There was something he was forgetting—

"Yes," Harry swallowed. "I knew I was only buying time for you to return. I feared that if Quirrell didn't get the Stone, You-Know-Who would."

"Not to save the _Stone_, my boy. To save _you_. The effort involved in protecting the Stone nearly _killed_ you. For a second, I feared it _had_. You've been recovering for the past four days. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have been here every second Madam Pomfrey allowed. They will be relieved to hear that you have finally woken."

"I…almost died," Harry muttered to himself. It was a strange thought. Perhaps stranger was how little the thought troubled him.

"So shall we all, someday," said Dumbledore, whose hearing was nothing diminished despite his age. "You and I both. It is part of being human. The wise accept that fact. They know that death is but the next great adventure, a view of new horizons."

Harry blinked. Well, that was one way of thinking of things, although it brought back to the fore of his mind thoughts he'd rather not dwell upon. Such as: what makes you human?

Dumbledore gave him the minute he needed to come to terms with, and to organise, his thoughts. He stared around the room, unseeing. He didn't ask where Ron and Hermione were. He was certain that Dumbledore had had them evicted to have what was certain to be a talk with much sensitive information discussed.

Next him, Harry caught sight of an end table covered in sweets. He had no idea what to think or how to react.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, in a cheerful voice. "What happened between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows about it."

Somehow, Harry doubted that. If they knew what he'd done, they wouldn't be celebrating him; they'd be shunning him. If they knew the truth, he'd have been expelled.

He wondered what the current opinion of the school was. His gaze slid aside, to Dumbledore. Dumbledore seemed to have been forthcoming thus far. Suppose…?

"Professor, might I ask you a few questions?" he asked.

Dumbledore paused, before clasping his hands together in front of his beard. His eyes, Harry noticed, were twinkling behind his semicircular glasses.

"Naturally, my dear boy. I owe you a debt, for preventing Quirrell from acquiring the Stone. Understand, however, that I will not answer all of your questions. There may be a few which I will refuse to answer. But I will not, of course, lie."

Well, of course he _said_ that. Harry doubted that it was _true_. He decided to test the waters, a bit.

"Sir, what was that last trap? That Mirror? And how did I get the Stone from it?"

"Ah, one of my more ingenious ideas, if I do say so myself. And between you and me, that's saying something. The Mirror, after all—The Mirror of Erised, as it is properly known—shows whatever is the deepest desire of the beholder. It lays bare before a man the deepest, most earnest desire of his heart. The happiest man in the world, one who desired nothing, would see himself exactly as he is. Had you encountered the Mirror on a different day, it would have shown you whatever it was that you most longed for. But what it shows is not necessarily true, or even possible. Men have wasted away, pining before it. I must ask you not to seek it out again. It is a very dangerous thing."

Harry thought of his excursions under the invisibility cloak, and nodded. That seemed right enough.

"As for how you acquired the Stone, only one who wished to find the Stone—_find_ it, but not use it—would be able to remove the Stone from the Mirror. Otherwise, he would just see himself with great wealth, or drinking the Elixir of Life."

"And you?" asked Harry, determined to find the limits. "What do _you_ see, sir?"

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks. People _will _insist upon giving me books for gifts."

His eyes sparkled with merriment, but there was something else behind that. Pain. Regret. Harry could almost feel it as if it were his own. Such a silly lie. Dumbledore had made little attempt to hide that that was what it was: a lie. Harry couldn't tell if Dumbledore, like Voldemort, was a wizard sufficiently skilled to hide his dissembling from Harry, and he'd let his guard down to show that he meant no harm, to show his sincerity, or whether his skill in deception were less than Voldemort's. Perhaps his uncertainty was itself sufficient answer.

Harry wondered what Dumbledore really saw, but he knew that that was quite the personal question. He dropped his gaze, instead, and turned to other matters. If Dumbledore was that overt about his lies, he should have no trouble catching him out.

"You know," he said, "at first I'd thought it was Quirrell after the Stone, but Snape—"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harry," Dumbledore interjected with a smile.

Harry was a bit put out at being interrupted, but sighed, and started again. "—but _Professor_ Snape hated me _so_ much, Hermione managed to convince me that it was he. Professor, do you know _why_ he hates me? I know Hagrid knows, but he refuses to answer."

Dumbledore paused, his expression distant, as if reminiscing.

"Ah, yes. He and you have had…some clashes of opinion, here and there. It is because he and your father never got on. They were at school together, and they…did not like each other very much. Professor Snape was always jealous of your father, I suppose because of his talent on the quidditch field. And they'd been at odds ever since their first train ride here—a bit like you and Mr. Malfoy, I believe. And then, your father did something Professor Snape could never forgive."

Harry leant forwards, despite himself. "What was that, sir?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. His mother, perhaps not knowing these details, had said nothing of them.

"He saved his life." Harry blinked, staring. That was not the answer he'd been expecting. He bit his tongue to keep from demanding "_what_?"

"Yes, it's funny the way these things work, isn't it? I suspect that is why he tried so hard to protect you this year. He supposed that if he saved your life, it would make them even, and he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace…."

The story did not smack of a lie, but that did not necessarily make it true. How involved was Dumbledore liable to have been in students' affairs? …Just when had his parents been in school, anyway?

"When was that?" he asked. Details might make it more likely that the story were true. At the very least, they would give him more facts to check.

"Ah. Well, the event of which I just spoke occurred in the spring of 1976. It was towards the end of their fifth year. Dangerous times, those were."

Silence. Harry turned over this new information in his mind. He could guess just what had made the seventies "dangerous times".

And speaking of his father….

"Professor Dumbledore, I received a strange gift for Christmas," he said, cautious, not wanting to reveal the invisibility cloak, but needing to at least see if Dumbledore might have some clue as to who might be able to anonymously send packages—even Christmas presents. "The note said that it belonged to my father…."

"Ah, you are speaking of the invisibility cloak, I presume," said Dumbledore. Harry glanced up, suddenly. Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling like mad. "Yes. Your father happened to leave it in my possession—I wanted to have a look at it, as it is a very fine invisibility cloak. I thought it best returned to you. He used it mainly for sneaking into the kitchens…. I trust you have used it well."

Did sneaking into the forbidden corridor count? (And he still had to retrieve the cloak from Ron.) And—what was this? Dumbledore had sent the cloak? Why had he had it in his possession?

He shook his head. He had the sense that Dumbledore would turn deliberately inscrutable if pressed for what made the invisibility cloak so special. There was a strange edge to his voice, almost of bitterness, that brought to mind his response to questions about the Mirror of Desire—almost as if the two reactions were somehow related. And that meant he'd probably not answer further prompts. Harry moved on.

"Professor…why is it that my scar burnt the closer Quirrell came to me? And when he grabbed my arm—"

Dumbledore's cheery expression turned grave. "Ah, Harry. I had hoped that you would ask this question. I noticed that the area around your scar was inflamed when I arrived, and that Quirrell's skin—particularly his hands—were covered in swollen blisters." Harry stared. He hadn't noticed _that_.

"I have devoted quite a bit of time to studying why it was that you survived on that Hallowe'en night, ten years ago. And the conclusion I came to was both simple and profound: _Your mother died to save you_. To have been loved so deeply will always leave its mark. No visible sign, no visible mark, but it will remain with you, always. The power of your mother's love." Harry, almost involuntarily, lifted his gaze to meet Dumbledore's. His mother's love. He wrenched his gaze away, closing his eyes, thinking of his mother. Hadn't he thought that his mother's love was silver fire? But, for Dumbledore to have noticed it…truly, Dumbledore was a knowledgeable wizard.

Dumbledore affected not to have noticed his reaction, continuing instead, "That is why Quirrell could not bear to touch you—why his skin was raw and blistered especially on his hands. He, the servant of Lord Voldemort, preserved, I am told, by the blood of the unicorn, and sharing his soul with Lord Voldemort, could no longer bear the presence of anything as pure and good as the love of a mother for her child. It was your mother's love that saved you. It was agony for them both to be touched by something so good. I suspect that the reverse is also true—that when Voldemort feels a particularly negative emotion, such as anger or hate, or when he is particularly near, you would experience the pain in the scar created by him."

Harry noticed with some interest that Dumbledore said "Voldemort" instead of You-Know-Who. He questioned why. But then, Hermione _had_ said something about Dumbledore being reputed to be the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared….

"That defence is also—and I sense that you were about to ask this question—the reason why I left you in the care of the Dursleys." Harry lowered his eyes, as his fists clenched. _Ah_. Then _this man_ was the reason, the excuse, the first cause of all the suffering he'd endured after that night. He'd better have a _very_ good reason.

"You see, your aunt is your mother's last living relative, your mother's sister. The protection your mother gave to you at the cost of her own life lives on in your blood, blood that is shared only by your aunt and cousin, Dudley. As long as it is considered your place of residence, as long as your Aunt Petunia is your guardian, that magic remains charged and potent. But it would vanish, were you to live elsewhere. Otherwise, I would offer even that you remain here at Hogwarts for the entire year. But that defence, the sacrifice of your mother's blood, saved your life that night, and four nights ago, and continues to protect you."

"Protects me from what?" asked Harry. His laugh sounded brittle and broken even to him. "Not from the Dursleys!"

"The threat posed by Voldemort and his followers is too great. Not all of Voldemort's followers were sent to Azkaban; some escaped. Although Quirrell is dead, Lord Voldemort abandoned him—he shows as little respect or mercy for his followers as he does his enemies. My sources tell me that he is still alive, after a fashion, in the forests of Albania. You have set him back this once, and while you showed great courage, and I do not mean to make light of your accomplishment, well, there is always the chance that he will find a new means of resurrecting himself. But if he is thwarted thus, every time hereafter by others with that same courage…why, he might never return. All the same, while it lasts, I wish for you to have the very best chance of survival that I can offer. This, alas, is your best chance."

Was it worth suffering the Dursleys, to keep the connection he had to his mother alive? Was he willing to risk losing that connection, if Dumbledore's theory were true, and it was the shared blood of Lily and Petunia that kept his mother's memory alive? Harry bowed his head. He knew the answer. Torture, starvation, deprivation, he could bear. But to lose his mother, _again_….

No. He'd suffer it all, and gladly. He bowed his head, acknowledging this fact. His fists loosened, and he turned back to face Dumbledore.

"Thank you," he said. "I always wondered why it was that I had to suffer the Dursleys…what crime I had committed. It turns out to have been the crime of another, all along. I understand, now, I think, why you did what you did. But…Headmaster, one question still troubles me. Why did my mother die? Why would You-Know-Who seek to kill a helpless baby, as I was then?"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry," Dumbledore chastised. "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Harry sensed an impending tangent, but knew he needed the answer to this question, too.

"Then, is there no reason not to use the name? Surely, there must be a reason people started to call him 'You-Know-Who'. "

Dumbledore frowned; the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. "He considered those who dared to speak his name to be his greatest enemies, and made a point of killing them and their families. It was often a sign that they were members of a secret Order I had created to fight against him. But he already is fixated upon your death. Using his name can do you no further harm."

"But it frightens those around me. And with good cause, I should think. I hardly think that _murder_ is the only crime of which he is guilty, professor. And who knows what less visible jinxes he might have placed upon his name, if he hated for people to use it, thus? But surely 'Voldemort' is not his real name, anyway. You must know what his given name is. Why do you not use that, instead?"

Speaking the name was strange. He'd spent the entire year he'd been aware of the Wizarding World avoiding it same as everyone else. He didn't think that he'd be changing his mind about using it, either. It was just common courtesy not to dredge up bad memories, of loss and of pain. He knew he wanted others to extend him the same courtesy.

Dumbledore paused. "I have my suspicions, and my suspicions are often accurate. But I have no proof, and the Ministry is corrupt, and would frown on what it would view as the defamation of a virtuous man. And I, too, must confess that I hope fervently to be wrong. For if I am not, there is a chance, however small it may be, that I had a share of making Voldemort who he became. No, Harry, it is best to leave those memories in the past."

What sort of odd logic made you think that dredging up recent memories of murder was better than reminding people that the murderer was once _considered_, at the very least, a good man? Did he, in truth, fear to _humanise_ the villain? He had the keen suspicion that that was the actual setback, no matter what Dumbledore said. The other reasons given might have been reasons, sure enough, but they were not the primary one.

_I shall not, of course, lie._

Harry tilted his head back to look at the hanging canopy extended overhead. This bed came with the square frame to support a wrap-around set of curtains for privacy. Possibly, if he'd closed the curtains before Dumbledore had arrived, the old man wouldn't have troubled him. Possibly.

Harry supposed that he could use the name "Voldemort" in private conference with Dumbledore, if the man were sure that there were no lurking dangers in its use. There were, after all, greater threats than that of Voldemort out there.

"And why did he try to kill me as a baby?" Harry prompted, when it seemed clear that Dumbledore had "forgotten" his question.

Dumbledore's expression turned bleak. He looked suddenly old, and weary.

"Alas, Harry, this is one question that I will not answer. I know you hate to hear this, but you are not old enough to hear the truth, yet."

Harry bristled again, drawing tightly into himself. _Not old enough_.

"Then shall I perhaps die, next year, slain still with no knowledge as to why? Shall I perish over the summer, still ignorant of your great secret? If I have killed Professor Quirrell, however accidentally—" i.e.: not at all, "—if I am old enough to have survived such a deadly confrontation, what worse threat is the knowledge of _why_?"

"You are not old enough to hear this particular secret, Harry. I fear that the burden it would place upon your shoulders is greater than you can imagine."

Harry sincerely doubted that, but could not, for the moment, think of a counterargument that didn't betray his…unique circumstances. He subsided, instead, frowning, trying to convince himself that it was good not to push the matter. If nothing else, it was building his patience.

He glanced again at the table of sweets, as Dumbledore picked out a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. If he had so many "friends and admirers", then probably the school had forgiven him the loss of fifty points. All it had taken was his near-death. And something else….

"You're welcome to them, Professor. It seems that I have more than enough candy."

"Ah, forgive me, my boy. I was only reminiscing…I used to like these quite a bit before I accidentally came across a vomit-flavoured one. Since then, I've rather lost my liking for them. Perhaps you still do?"

Harry shrugged. "You could try one."

Dumbledore smiled. "I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee-flavoured one, don't you?"

* * *

Hermione and Ron were not long in entering the Hospital Wing after Dumbledore exited, as if they'd been waiting just outside the door. Hermione might have been holding her breath with how irregular her breathing was. Then again, it also looked as if she'd been crying.

He'd had to placate Madam Pomfrey, who had argued that they shouldn't come in, by promising not to move in his bed overmuch. She seemed to think that after four days unconscious, he still needed further rest.

Hermione glanced around the Hospital Wing for the aforementioned nurse, and then bent down, crying, over Harry's hospital bed, pulling him into a hug. The injuries he'd sustained in his fight with Quirrell had long since healed, but he still flinched at her touch. It felt as if he were still sore, somewhere beneath the level of his flesh. He turned his gaze to Ron, and glared at him. It was most unfair that he should have to suffer Hermione's assault, and Ron was left free.

But Ron had made the mistake of coming close enough for Harry to reach. Harry, in what would probably be considered an uncharacteristic display in other circumstances, reached up and pulled Ron down into the same hug. But his expression told a different story. _If __**I**__ must suffer this, you shall too_.

Ron seemed to take the hidden message.

"Oh, Harry, we were so worried! You've been unconscious for four days—"

"Yes, Dumbledore mentioned that. You'd best back off, by the way: I promised Madam Pomfrey I'd _rest_. She won't like your interference."

Hermione pouted, but withdrew. Ron seemed determined to discover the extent of his injuries by sight alone. But unless he had x-ray vision, his best attempts would not avail him.

"I'm _fine_, Ron," he heard himself say in exasperation. Ron looked troubled, but said nothing, which was alarming all on its own. He'd expected protestations.

Oh, well. No sense getting riled up over a turn of _good_ fortune, for once.

"And the two of you? Did you sustain any lasting injuries? Did Madam Pomfrey heal you?"

Hermione frowned. "I told Ron that he should get his head checked—er, you know what I mean—" Harry had to stifle a grin, despite himself, at Hermione's poor wording, "—but he insisted it was fine. He was too busy worrying about _you_. I didn't push it, because I was more worried about you, too, especially since you were unconscious for days, and Madam Pomfrey said it was just magical exhaustion, but we didn't want to distract her, and we figured it wouldn't be very long until you woke, anyway, so I—"

"Hermione," Harry said, in his calmest voice. "_Breathe_."

By now, he knew that when Hermione got worked up about something, she seemed able to forego breathing to unleash an endless stream of words arranged into a single, run-on sentence. He decided not to discover whether or not she'd still pass out due to oxygen deprivation.

Hermione blushed, and held her breath for a few seconds in a calming exercise. Good. Harry turned his attention back to Ron, who was looking about the room. Once again, it seemed as if there were something he very much wanted to say, but Harry knew that it would be a fruitless endeavour to try to coax it out of him.

"What happened down there?" he asked, instead. "I mean…after we parted ways. Hermione, did you go back to the owlery to find Hedwig, or did you wake Ron first?"

Hermione frowned, and exhaled at long last. "Well, I found Ron first, and he was still out cold—" she gave a significant glare in Ron's direction, "—and I couldn't wake him, so I waited, in case the chess set attacked as we were trying to leave, but while I was waiting, Dumbledore had decided to come check on the Stone.

"'He's gone after him, hasn't he?' was the first thing Dumbledore said to us, and I admit the first assumption I had was that he'd set everything up just so, that we would be able to pass through, picked off one by one, until you had to face Professor Quirrell and You-Know-Who's joint forces, alone…. It _might_ all be a coincidence, though…."

She paused, looking contemplative, before rushing headlong back into her summary. "Dumbledore led us through all the traps, and he had some very interesting shortcuts through the obstacles. I don't even know how all of them worked. But…when we got to the room with that Mirror, you'd…."

Harry understood what she meant to say without her having to finish the sentence. And he knew what came next. Inevitably, she would want to know what had happened, how he'd worked himself so hard that he was unconscious for four days. He had no answer for her. But, for some reason, his mind was urging him not to examine that particular memory too closely.

"I don't know," he said, before she could ask. "Headmaster Dumbledore said that my mother's love saved me by burning Quirrell. I am inclined to agree. But as to why it left me unconscious for—what did you both say? Four days?—as to that, I couldn't say. Dumbledore answered a few of my questions, pretended not to know the answers to as many, and himself didn't know the answers to some. He _did_ tell me why I must return to the Dursleys, at least—"

"What?" Ron roared, drawing Madam Pomfrey's attention to them. "You must _return_? Did you make clear—"

"I'm _fine_, Ron," Harry said again, glancing surreptitiously at Madam Pomfrey. He almost wished that she would kick both of his friends out, but then…. No, best to get this over with. He sighed, and braced himself. "He said that the Dursleys were the only reason that the protection provided by my mother's sacrifice was still active. I'm not willing to risk it, and it's only for six more years, anyway…."

"Unto this point, their behaviour was tempered by the belief that they might yet 'cure' you of magic. Now that you are attending Hogwarts, however, what is holding them back? Harry, please—"

Begging did not suit Ron, Harry decided. It was tempting to just placate him with some manner of vague promise to do something about this, but Ron would learn eventually that he'd done no such thing, and Harry had no great desire to destroy what trust he'd built up for a short reprieve. It was necessary to make Ron see that this was necessary, but since Ron was a bit hotheaded and impulsive, and didn't listen too well when angered….

"Ron," he said, keeping his voice deliberately calm. If _he_ lost his temper, then any hopes of doing the thing properly were gone. "I've already said that my mother's love was what kept me alive when Quirrell was trying to kill me—it burnt him when he tried to touch me, to even come _close_. Because my Aunt Petunia is my mother's only living relative—" well, sort of, depending on how you viewed things, "—I have to live there during the summers, so that it's considered my place of residence. But, I'm sure Dumbledore would be in favour of me spending some time over the summer elsewhere, as well. Just as long as I spent enough time there to renew that protection. You're the mother hen, Ron. It seems a worthwhile risk, if it helps to protect me from You-Know-Who."

But in truth, he was thinking more of his mother's almost monthly visits. He was not risking those for anything. While he knew that Ron had no authority over where he stayed, there was still some sort of concern that…he wasn't sure what. That Mrs. Weasley would take the Dursleys to court for child abuse? It was a worthy thought, and once he would have jumped at the chance, but now that he knew what was at stake….

"Believe me, when I was little, I sometimes turned to adults, looking to escape the Dursleys. Often they promised to help me, and they believed me. They vanished, then, and I never knew what became of them. I never saw them again.—"

"They were probably obliviated!" Hermione chimed in. Seeing his puzzled frown, she explained, "It means that someone wiped all memory of you from their minds."

More mind magic. Harry shuddered. He shook his head. "The point is, even if I _did_ decide to leave the Dursleys, I have little faith that arrangements would stay as they were. I would have to disappear, I suspect. And wizards reach majority at seventeen. It's only six more summers, Ron. Please, Ron. Just trust me."

Because, what else was there to say? Ron turned away, and said nothing in response.

* * *

Hagrid came in later that day. Harry rather suspected that he, too, had frequently checked back on Harry to see if he was awake yet. But he probably didn't burst into tears every time, as he did this time, crying about how it was all his fault, that Harry could have died, that he should be sent out to live as a muggle. (Harry, despite himself, couldn't help wanting to see just how Hagrid would even try to live in the muggle world, given how much attention he'd drawn in their brief trip to Diagon Alley.)

Harry sighed, resigning himself to attempting the impossible. "It wasn't _your_ fault, Hagrid. This is You-Know-Who we're talking about. Even if you'd kept silent, he'd have figured out some way around you and…Fluffy. At least this way, you got to get over your fantasy of hatching a dragon, and no one got tortured or killed to extract the information. Personally, I'm glad that he used non-violent means."

Hagrid looked a bit uneasy; this had clearly not occurred to him. "Eh. I've got tough skin, anyway. Spells don't work on me quite right. That's probably why…still, I suppose you have a point. Supposed to be one of the most brilliant wizards in history, he is. Dumbledore just sent me out to get you a present. Should've sacked me, but there you have it. Great man, Dumbledore."

And he pulled out of his many-pocketed coat a thick, leatherbound book. Harry took it from him, cocked his head in confusion, and then, realising that Hagrid was going to keep his secret for once, opened it up.

And stared. It was a photo album. Smiling and waving at him from every picture were photos of James Potter and Lily Evans. Mum and Dad. Outside of the Mirror, he'd had no way of knowing what James Potter even looked like. Words failed him.

"Sent letters to all your parents' old school friends. Knew you didn't have many pictures of them. Dumbledore had me put it together."

"Hagrid, this is…." He couldn't find the right word, but perhaps the awe in his voice sufficiently carried his point.

Hagrid just gave him one of his crinkle-eyed smiles. Harry had the sense that Hagrid understood _exactly_.


	28. It Ends As It Began

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Photographs and Memories**

The next day, Harry was at last allowed to leave the Hospital Wing. Since it was almost dark out, he headed straight for Gryffindor Tower, to put the photo album with the rest of his meagre belongings. What else was there to do? If he were Hermione, he would have gone to the library to research something. Although in truth, Ron was probably trouncing her in chess right now. Harry just wanted that normalcy, such as it was in _this_ castle, back.

He'd still spent more time asleep than awake over the past twenty-four hours, and hadn't had much time to think over what had happened in the fight against Quirrell. He hadn't dwelt upon it much, had tried _not_ to think about it, sensing that that was a Bad Idea, but not following that train of thought to the conclusion of what that had to mean.

He was therefore unprepared for the confrontation that followed his return.

It started innocently enough. Ron was clearly relieved to have Harry back in Gryffindor Tower, which was touching, but he was also in a heightened state of concern and overprotection, which was just…tiresome. Harry needed a reprieve from that, and, apparently, spending five days (spending the majority of a five day span) unconscious didn't count. As it was still early in June, he didn't even have his mother's visit to look forward to, which made him all the more eager to search through the photo album Hagrid had given him. But Ron _had_ to draw attention to him when he entered the Tower, and then straightaway set to scolding him.

"Ah! Madam Pomfrey saw fit to release you at last. Welcome back, Harry," Ron said, with a smile. Something about his smile seemed strained. Perhaps he was still thinking about the Dursleys. Harry sighed, and tried to appreciate the fact that someone cared whether or not he lived or died. He still wasn't accustomed to the idea, and he'd be going back to the Dursleys soon… maybe it was best if he didn't accustom himself to it that much.

Sooner or later, he was always going to be alone. He knew that. It was one of the few reliable truths of life. But…for some reason, he didn't want to push his new friends away, either. They wouldn't last—good things never did—but he'd just try to appreciate them whilst they were still there. While they still _cared_….

_The only way—_

It was easy to shove that thought aside, now, but he was glad anyway when Ron interrupted.

"Harry? Are you quite sure you've recovered? Perhaps you should—"

No one was around to witness it but Dean, Seamus, and Neville, and yet, Harry still felt…well, a bit affronted. Did Ron always have to be such a worrywart? Hadn't Harry _just_ said—

"Something troubles you, Harry," Ron said. He'd come closer without Harry noticing it. It was a bad sign when Harry didn't notice people's approach. From childhood, he'd been forced to have it hard-engrained: potential threat approaching; prepare to run. Of course, he could fend for himself, now, but still… it never did to lower your guard.

Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Harry flinched, drew back, considered his options, heart racing. But… Ron wasn't the enemy. Ron was never the enemy. He could trust Ron. Couldn't he?

"Leave me alone," he said, voice surprisingly calm, all things considered. "I said I'm _fine_."

Ron looked sceptical. He glanced around the room. Hesitated. But he still had hold of Harry's shoulder, so Harry couldn't take the opportunity to vanish. (Speaking of vanishing, he still needed to retrieve his invisibility cloak. Later.)

"I believe it is time that you and I spoke about recent events," Ron said. He glanced around the room, again. "Dean, Neville, Seamus. Would you mind if Harry and I spoke in private for a few minutes?"

Harry wondered if Ron noticed it happen—that the three of them, the three mentioned, made no protests, gave no excuses, didn't even grumble. They glanced at Ron, glanced at Harry, and then slipped away, obeying Ron's tacit order. That was crazy. How had Ron _done_ that?

Harry was left reeling. He realised only then that he even _had_ had some sort of hope that one of them might come to rescue him from his impending misfortune—or even Hermione. Where was she, anyway?

Ron waited for them to leave, watching out of the corner of his eye. Harry decided to head off the approaching confrontation.

"I'm fine, Ron. Really. Madam Pomfrey let me leave the Hospital Wing, and she's very strict. She wouldn't let me go unless she were sure. Now, if you're done worrying needlessly—"

Ron interrupted him, with a helpless wave of his hands. "You _died_, Harry!" he cried. "I think my concern after that is not '_senseless_'."

Harry froze. He gripped the photo album tighter, lest he drop it. His heart was now racing, because Ron was not the type to exaggerate such things, or to outright lie. Ron was terrible at lying, anyway. But that meant that he'd died—_died_—and had no memory of it. How could he have died and not remember it? How could he have died and _not know it_?

He stared at Ron, wide-eyed, for a moment, and then, clenching the photo album tightly, still, he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

"I—I _died_?" he repeated, unsure of himself, now, unsteady on his feet. His knees buckled and he knelt on the floor, lest he fall. He could feel Ron crouch down before him, to stay more or less level. "How? I—When did I die? No one told me anything about that…."

Ron sounded a bit hesitant, too, when he spoke. Harry cracked an eye open, but he didn't have it in him to analyse the situation. He felt heavy, and tired, and weak. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe he _should_ have stayed in the Hospital Wing.

"It was at the hospital," said Ron, slowly. "The doctor said—"

Harry raised a hand, cutting him off. "What hospital? When? Ron, I've never been to a hospital in my life. I distinctly recall telling you that, when I was explaining about the Dursleys, how they—"

"It was the day before yesterday," Ron corrected him. His expression was grim, perhaps filled with needless grief. Harry wasn't inclined to analyse it overmuch, when there were far more important subjects to pursue. He'd been to the hospital? Really? But if Ron thought he should remember it…then why _didn't_ he? "Do you remember…nothing?"

Harry was tempted to make some sort of simple-minded, incoherent answer, as when Hagrid had told him about being a wizard, and said that Harry knew nothing (about the wizarding world), and Harry had defended himself by saying that he could do arithmetic.

And beneath that, the shadow of another answer, unsuited to the situation, but there nonetheless, as if inextricably tied to the concept of memory.

_I remember a shadow, in the shade of your greatness. I remember_—

_Irrelevant_, Harry told himself. He closed his eyes again, pursued the topic of recent events for the first time. He didn't remember the hospital, but….

"Harry?" Ron prompted, concern oozing from his voice. What right did Harry have to cause others such distress?

Was there something he should be remembering?

"What do you remember, then? What is the last thing you remember?" asked Ron. His tone was surprisingly urgent. Why?

"I remember fighting Quirrell…and then—"

That was it. That was what he hadn't wanted to remember. Had deliberately buried in his own thoughts. The mantra. He'd _used the mantra_.

"Ron," he said, unable to keep his voice from shaking. How could he have forgotten? What had happened? What wasn't he remembering? What had he done? "Ron, what happened? Why are you asking me what I remember? What did I do?"

Ron's hand had left his shoulder, and he hadn't noticed. Ron seemed about to withdraw (tactical retreat…), and Harry clenched his hand tight around Ron's lower arm. Ron didn't even wince, but he was paying attention, now.

"Ron, _what did I do_?" Harry demanded. Intellectually, he knew that it would do him no good to know. That didn't change the fact that he _needed_ to know. It was imperative. Whatever it was, it must have been bad. That was the only reason Ron wouldn't reply. And the longer he delayed, the more devastating the turns Harry's mind took.

"Ron. Answer me!"

Ron froze, blinking furiously, and looked back at Harry. Harry found himself wishing that he knew how to read minds.

"The doctor—the one at the muggle hospital. You tried to kill him. You do not remember? You were subdued, however, before anyone could be seriously hurt."

Harry reeled back, sinking back to his knees. He realised that he'd dropped the photo album at some point, had no memory of when. All about him, it was as if his memories were disappearing, one by one. An illusion. He knew that. Intellectually.

"I…tried to kill someone…" he said. He wanted to laugh. It sounded incredible. And of all people, why a doctor? They were sworn only to help people; that one had probably saved his life, back when—_you died!_

"Oh," he heard himself say. His hands were shaking. He didn't trust himself to pick the album back up. _It isn't as bad as Loki trying to conquer the world. Not as bad as Germany_, he told himself. That was small consolation, because this was in truth a devastating blow. All this year, he'd hoped—operated under the assumption—that the mind control couldn't touch him. He'd known better—in his mind. But to hear it stated flat out….

"I knew it was something bad. The last thing I remember, before waking in the Hospital Wing… I used the mantra. I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. I never meant—"

There was no justification, no excusing what he'd done. He'd known better, but he hadn't been able to think through the pain. Hadn't _wanted_ to think through the pain, enough to do the right thing. He hadn't been strong enough.

Ron shook his head, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder again. An attempt at a silent show of support. Harry understood that much. He shrugged the arm off. Stood.

"Harry, you must _not_ blame yourself. You are the only one who died, and even you were saved. No one holds it against you. And if they knew the truth, none would blame you for your actions."

Harry turned to face him, as Ron rose to his feet, too. Slowly. Giving Harry space. Time. The opportunity to stay and listen, or to leave. Why _wasn't_ he leaving? Selfishness?

Because Harry knew what no one else could. He knew where it came from, the mantra. He knew what it led to. And now he knew that it meant that he wasn't safe to be around. As long as the mantra was there, there was always the chance that he'd lose control. That that other entity (_Thanos_, his mind whispered unhelpfully) might control him, and who could hope to prevail, then?

He thought of Loki, who fell from the Rainbow Bridge when he'd learnt the true circumstances of his origins. But that had led straight to Thanos. Harry would just isolate himself, and endure. He'd spent his first ten years alone. He could go back. He had to.

He bent down to pick up the photo album, and walked towards the door hiding the staircase to the boys dorms.

"Harry," Ron said, and there was something in his voice…it sounded like a command. Despite himself, Harry stopped, and turned around, back to Ron. "You are not at fault. If anything, I must apologise. I swore to defend you to the end, but where was I when you needed me most? I will do what I can to help you. Just ask. Harry, do you trust me?"

Harry frowned, puzzled, not understanding where this was coming from. The sudden solemnity was understandable, but why was Ron acting…thus?

"I…" he paused, considering. He realised that Ron had been there for him, from when they first met on the train, even to the obstacle course beneath the school. Friends as stalwart and steadfast were hard to find. His throat constricted. He nodded.

"Then let me help you," Ron said. "I said that I would help you, and swore to protect you. Even from yourself, if that is what you fear. Please, don't turn your back on us who care about you."

"If I tried to kill a doctor—"

"But you did not succeed. I knew that there was a risk, and snuck out of school to ensure you did nothing you would regret. I was able to subdue you. You need not attempt to suffer the whims of Fate alone. We will help you, Hermione and I. Let us help you."

Ron. _Ron_ had somehow subdued him? _Ron_ had snuck out of school? It didn't seem to fit….

"…_You_…?" He set the album on an armchair as he came back, cocking his head, frowning, trying to understand. Why would Ron make such an offer? Why? _Why_? He couldn't possibly understand what he was offering….

What if he did? What if there _was_ a hope, slim though it was?

"Do you…mean that?" he asked. He had, somehow, never felt quite this vulnerable before. Perhaps because he'd never had occasion to trust anyone, thus.

"Of course," said Ron, all solemn gravity and purpose. He meant it. He _would_ try. And he seemed to understand what that meant, too.

Harry stood there, stock still, rendered momentarily motionless, unable to speak _or_ move.

"Thank you," he said, after far too long. "Not just for that. I mean…thank you, Ron. I think you and Hermione are the reason I survived this year."

He tried for a wry smile.

"Never," Ron said, his voice one of stern command, "make light of your own death, Harry. There are those of us who would never overcome your loss."

Harry sighed. Ron was still going to be insufferable, he supposed. There was no avoiding that. Still.

Ron pulled him into a one-armed hug, and then turned away, saying, "Just be careful."

Careful. Right. As if that ever did him any good.

* * *

The points were in, and Gryffindor had lost…at least, until Dumbledore had awarded some last minute points. Slytherin was seething. Neville's sixty points, and Ron and Hermione's fifty points each, were enough to push them over the top into first place, shunting Slytherin aside. Harry had, therefore, deferred the addition of points Dumbledore threatened to award on his behalf. The school loved him again, judging by the half a candy shop's stock he'd received whilst laid up in the Hospital Wing.

What other cause was there for further points? But mostly, he just didn't feel that he deserved them. He couldn't believe that Dumbledore would stoop so low as to award him points for killing a man, even in self-defence, and especially after he'd almost killed another, innocent man (not, apparently, that anyone knew that save for him and Ron).

He wondered if things would have been different, had he dared to use the ambient energy of the obstacle course. At the time, he'd feared that tapping into it would cause Dumbledore's network of spells that were drawing on that same energy to draw on his _own_. But perhaps it would have worked.

He decided that it probably wouldn't have mattered—all it would have done would have been to give him slightly more energy in the inevitable battle, and in the end, the problem had been when Quirrell had reached past his shield, gotten past his guard, and made actual, direct, skin-to-skin contact. That was what had caused him to lose control. That and the mistake of leaving a dagger made of his mother's love (right?) embedded in the enemy's chest.

_Amateur's error_. But all was well that ended well, possibly, and he'd survived.

* * *

Ron must have spent the past few days thinking _very_ hard about how to go about it, because in the train compartment, he'd wasted no time in informing Harry of his plans for how they would stay in touch over the summer.

Harry's immediate thought was that he himself had a very fine owl named Hedwig, who would very much appreciate the opportunity of stretching her wings and leaving the wretched Dursleys behind. But Ron had to bring him back down to earth with the reminder that the shock of Harry being a wizard was now over, and who knew how they'd react to his return to their house? Given their history, the prospects did not look good.

This was one of those things that did not bear thinking about, as Harry readily acknowledged to himself. Given that the Dursleys' standard punishment for his infractions (witting and otherwise) was starvation-cum-imprisonment in his cupboard under the stairs, it seemed unlikely that Hedwig would be given free rein. How he intended to keep her alive if they decided to starve him was yet another problem for which he couldn't plan without further knowledge. He now lived in the second bedroom (formerly Dudley's second bedroom), which suggested that he might occasionally be able to get away with breaking the rules and letting her fly free. But he couldn't count on anything.

Ron handed over a small, pocket-sized cylindrical canister. Harry opened it, curious, to find a series of black rings strung on a cord. The very last one, at the end, was not black, but red. He frowned, turning to Ron, hoping that his expression adequately conveyed that he had no idea what to make of any of this.

"I will send the family owl, Errol, to visit you once a week. Although he is very old, given time, he never fails to make a delivery, and it rarely takes more than two or three days. Although I would prefer a better plan, this is all that I have. The twins gave me those rings when I explained my plan to them. I'm sure that you have noticed that most of these rings are black, save for the last. Once a week, Errol will come to check to see how you fare. If you are as well as might be expected, give him one of the black rings. If an unanticipated danger has befallen you, give him the red ring. If I receive such a ring, or if you fail to respond, I shall myself come to check to ensure that you are well. I need hardly stress the severity of this."

"You mean, you'll come to Little Whinging looking for me if I don't reply? Suppose the Dursleys shut up my window and won't let Hedwig out?"

Ron shrugged. "Then, that is what I shall learn, and I _will_ tell Mum. She would be most displeased to learn of their treatment of you."

"Ron, how do you even think you could possibly _find_ me? Have you ever _been_ to Little Whinging?"

Ron paused, glancing down. "When we first met, I told you that my mother had taught me a spell for finding those who were important to me. It works best when I have little knowledge of the area, or of their whereabouts. to distract me, but I was able to find you, here, on this train. I shall also find you in…Little Whinging."

Harry paused. The whole plan seemed far-fetched and absurd, and it seemed quite a bit of trouble for the Weasleys to go through on his account. There was no way he was worth that amount of effort. Especially not given what he'd done. And yet…despite himself, he felt he owed it to Ron to help the plan succeed. Why was that? He sighed, glancing down at the floor of the train.

"…Look for Stonewall High School—that's the local public school; it can't be far away. And Little Whinging Public Library. And as for streets, there's Wisteria Walk, and Magnolia Crescent. They're near enough."

Why had he even said that? He hung his head, regretting it already, but Ron nodded, slowly, as if he hadn't said anything unusual. Maybe both of them were insane. Harry sighed, and buried his head in his hands.

"Ron, do you even know how to _get_ to Little Whinging? Aren't you worried about getting in trouble?"

Ron seemed to be attempting to smile and frown at the same time. "There are more important things than whether or not I 'get into trouble', Harry. Your safety is one of those."

Harry had no idea how to react to that. It was just as well, because he missed his chance when Hermione re-entered the compartment, none the wiser. She looked back and forth between them as if she suspected something, but she wisely didn't ask.

{end _Two Princes_}


	29. Off to a Great Start

**author's note (for book II):** this one is my least favourite, and the weakest of them, in my opinion. On the positive side, it's also the shortest. This one's the most canon-like of them, as well. Fair warning.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Off to a Great Start**

It was just as well Harry had Ron's plan as a failsafe, because Ron was right: the Dursleys _were_ being worse this year than the last. He might have joked about them being unaware that he couldn't use magic over the summer, but that hadn't stopped him from keeping the knowledge to himself. He needed anything remotely resembling an advantage that he could get. Any little defence might meant the difference between life and death. Such was life at the Dursleys. At least it made good survival training. That which doesn't kill you, and all that.

And although they'd given out the reminders to everyone, he'd never agreed not to use magic, and therefore didn't consider it binding. He was sure that they'd know if he'd used wizarding magic—if only by recognising that magic was being used (in whatever method they recognised underage magic) and then tracking it to its source. But they wouldn't have been under the assumption that his magic was completely untrained if they'd known about his mother's teachings.

To be absolutely safe, he'd waited until the dead of night, in his room, and then tried his old experiment again. As if it drew on a completely different sort of energy, it was sluggish as an atrophied muscle, which was somewhat disconcerting. Either he'd somehow separated the two when they oughtn't be (perhaps subconsciously, even, that the Ministry not discover his endeavours) or the two magics naturally came of different sources. Either way, it served him, now.

Although he'd used this magic in the battle against Quirrell, that had been the deluded part of him, tainted by Thanos's influence. Perhaps it made sense that it made more effective use of his magic reserves. Perhaps those reserves, such as he'd ever built up, were locked up with the corrupted corner of his mind, and he needed to start anew, again. Perhaps his death had done something to his magic.

Using wizarding magic didn't seem to have done anything to deepen his reserves. And maybe he'd thought them deeper than they had been—he remembered, still, his thoughts of how shallow his reserves had seemed, during the battle with Quirrell. Then, he must have used his lifeforce to power half of those spells, and it wasn't as surprising that he still had little energy for the _other_ sort of magic to draw from.

After a week's such practice with nary a word from the Ministry, he considered his attempts a triumph. While it was a risky endeavour, he needed to practice this magic sometime. His mother hadn't approved when he'd told her on the Thirtieth, but she'd conceded that, if he hadn't been caught yet, the Ministry was likely unaware of his activities. And it wasn't as if he had anything else to distract him. The Dursleys kept him busy with chores, even though he had schoolwork he needed to work on. But that just gave him more time to think, to remember, to _dwell_.

He wished that even one of his friends had dared to contact him, but Ron must have warned them not to try, because the holidays were halfway over, and he'd yet to receive a single letter.

Now it was July Thirty-First, the only birthday he knew of. At that point, he'd used half of the rings—six, in all. Errol had shown up, usually in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. He suspected that Ron sent him off on Sunday for no better reason than that it was two days before Tuesday, and Ron said it usually took Errol a couple of days to get where he was going. This meant that Errol arrived back home on Thursday, and had two days to recover before being sent out again. Probably.

It was the end of the week (Errol was back home), it was the end of the month, it was another birthday, come and gone with none noticing. Maybe.

"I know what day it is today!" Dudley said in that horrible mocking sing-song voice. Harry had been pruning bushes in the garden, and had noticed a pair of big, round eyeballs staring at him from a hedge. He wondered if the Ministry had spies.

"Then you finally learnt the days of the week—or how to count to Thirty-One. You must be so proud," Harry said. The heat was probably getting to him, but it was rather galling, the way that Dudley never did anything but eat and play videogames (and sometimes go Harry Hunting, if he felt in the mood for exercise), whilst Harry was melting under the heat.

"No! It's your _birthday_," Dudley chortled. "Well, how are you going to celebrate _your_ birthday, huh? I don't know if you noticed, but it looks as if no one even _remembered_ except for me. What about your freak friends from freak school, huh? Did they remember?"

Something snapped audibly. Harry wasn't in the mood to find out what. "Well, if they did or didn't, I'll never know. Hedwig isn't allowed out of her cage, after all. So, if I was supposed to have received any letters…."

Of course, Dudley couldn't figure out that his friends would have to have their own means of sending letters _to_ him. Hedwig would only enable him to contact others. He frowned, trying to puzzle out whether or not Harry's explanation made any sense. Harry left him to it, quite literally; he removed himself to a different part of Aunt Petunia's garden, thinking furiously, wondering if anyone even remembered him. Ron must, but was it only because he kept sending back the rings? If he forgot, one week, what _would_ happen? It was tempting to find out.

And what of Hagrid? Or Hermione? Hermione had non-magical means of contacting people, and Hagrid lived in Hogwarts, and was unlikely to be in the loop as to Harry's situation. Although…he _had_ met the Dursleys before….

And then Aunt Petunia called him in, to talk about the very important dinner Uncle Vernon was about to have with a prospective business partner and his wife. Harry, sitting in his room, all alone, and with nothing to do, had to admit that this was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had offered yet. He was going to spend the entire evening in his room, pretending he didn't exist.

Or, he could do something else. Locked here in his bedroom for the day, what else was there to do but practice the other sort of magic?

But as he turned to fall onto his bed after his long day's labour, he found someone else already sitting there. An unfamiliar being with long drooping ears, and watery green eyes. He recognised at once the spy watching him from the hedges, and was instantly on his guard.

"You!" he cried, and then deliberately lowered the volume of his voice, lest Uncle Vernon hear and see fit to punish him for "making noise", and not pretending he didn't exist. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?"

The creature's eyes watered, and Harry fought back what he recognised as _pity_ of all things, for the being that had invaded his life, and now was poised to get him in a _lot_ of trouble with his relatives. That was ridiculous. But…he stared at the tattered, grimy pillowcase that served the creature for clothing, and wanted to just even give him a change of clothes. Dudley's hand-me-downs would look absurd on the creature, whatever he was, but…it was still an improvement.

"Dobby is Dobby, sir! And you is master Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry had to concede the point. He resisted the urge to ask the creature (evidently named "Dobby") just what he was, instead saying:

"Shh! Please, keep it down! My relatives are downstairs, and they _really_ don't want me making any noise. They'll blame _me_ for any noise you might make. In fact, now isn't a good time—"

"Dobby must warn Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has heard of your exploits, last term. That just last month, Master Harry Potter escaped He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named again! Master Harry Potter is truly a great wizard—"

This sort of talk made Harry decidedly uncomfortable. "I'm not a great wizard," he tried to explain again. "That's Hermione."

He swallowed, hard. Wondered whether Hermione hadn't merely forgotten him. He couldn't help the thought. It seemed true of everyone in the past.

"Ah, modest as well! Harry Potter is not only a great wizard, but kind and good as well!"

Harry gave it up for a lost cause.

"Please, sit down," he said, remembering his manners. They might come from the Dursleys, but it was the only positive lesson they had taught him. But this might have been a mistake, because Dobby's eyes watered, and he cried—

"'Sit down! Sit down! Ah, never before has Dobby been invited to sit down, as an equal! Harry Potter is—"

"Shh!" Harry said again. "You can't have met many decent wizards, then," he mused. Dobby nodded, and then his eyes widened, which was all the warning Harry got before the creature reached for Harry's desk lamp and started beating himself over the head. Uncle Vernon would have a fit.

He wrenched the lamp out of Dobby's hand, keeping a tight grip on it. "What are you _doing_?" he hissed.

But he was interrupted as Uncle Vernon's heavy footfalls indicated he was climbing the stairs. Harry shoved Dobby into the wardrobe, just in time for Vernon Dursley to appear in the doorway. The creature's squeals of pain must have caught Uncle Vernon's attention.

"I don't know what in the blazes you think you're doing here, boy—" he began, as Harry stood there, looking as bored as he could manage, with his heart racing, and the knowledge that he had a creature of unknown species hiding in his wardrobe, if Uncle Vernon dared to look. He bit back a retort about that not being the only thing Uncle Vernon didn't know; that wouldn't help.

"If you make one more peep, you'll be locked up here through the end of next week! So zip it!"

And he stormed out. Only then did Harry dare to breathe, letting Dobby slowly out of the wardrobe.

"Why did you—?"

"Dobby almost spoke ill of his masters, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby had to punish himself!"

Harry thought that he was better off not even asking why. "Your masters? Did they send you?" he demanded. "What are you _doing_ here, Dobby?"

"Oh no! Dobby would have to iron his hands in the oven door if they knew he was here, sir. No one knows that Dobby came here. But he couldn't risk Harry Potter, sir! You is in danger, Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts this year!"

Harry's mind reeled. _Not_ go back to Hogwarts? A small corner of his mind wondered whether that idea required a red ring, but he shook his head, chasing the thought away in favour of more relevant thoughts.

"But I have to go back!" he hissed. "Hogwarts is my home, more than this place is—hang on, how do I know this isn't all some trick? Wait…your masters…are they the ones who gave you those clothes?"

If they did, they couldn't care much about Dobby. Perhaps it meant he was less than loyal to them. Dobby nodded.

"'Tis a mark of a house elf's enslavement, sir. These clothes show that Dobby is his master's property, sir. Dobby is knowing too many secrets for them to consider giving him clothes…even if he is a very bad elf!"

Dobby was a house-elf, then. And his master was a sadistic bastard. Okay. Well, that was some knowledge. Dobby didn't seem too fond of his master, but didn't seem to feel that it was in his power to free himself, either. And what was that about giving him clothes?

"Why wouldn't they give you clothes?" Harry asked, setting aside the more important topic as he tried to decide whether or not "Dobby" was trustworthy. "You definitely need them."

"A house elf's clothes are the mark of his servitude, Harry Potter, sir. To give him new clothes would be to set Dobby free, sir. Dobby's masters would not be risking that! Dobby's masters are—"

His eyes widened, and Harry, recognising the signs, dropped the lamp on his bed, grabbing both of Dobby's wrists firmly. He was intent on damaging himself; Harry could feel Dobby straining against his hold, but at last he subsided. It seemed almost involuntary. If Dobby were here on his master's orders, it was against his will. And Dobby seemed shrewd enough, if he'd come here against his master's wishes, to find a workaround, a way to let him know if he were here on anyone's volition but his own. Harry relaxed.

"You didn't say anything," he said. "Don't start hitting yourself, or we'll never get anywhere. Dobby, you saw what I put up with! How could you say that I'd be better off _here_ than at Hogwarts, where I belong?"

"Terrible things is planned for this year at Hogwarts! Harry Potter sir must not go to Hogwarts! He is too great, he is too good, to lose!"

Harry shook his head, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. There was no sense arguing with Dobby, and he didn't want Dobby to say anything that would risk him feeling the need to punish himself, again.

"What is being planned for this year at Hogwarts? What can be worse than what happened last year?" It was a school, not a battleground! "Hold on—does this have anything to do with You-Know-Who?"

He stared Dobby down, and paid attention for any tells. "Not…not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir…." Dobby sounded hesitant, his eyes wide and pleading, as if he were trying to give Harry a hint. But the hint eluded Harry.

"What, then?" he demanded. "Can't you tell me—?"

"Say no more…say no more, it is too terrible for Dobby to mention, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby cried. Harry tensed at the volume, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to have noticed. Perhaps he was being oversensitive.

"Promise Dobby that you will not go back to Hogwarts! You must promise, Harry Potter, sir!"

Harry frowned. No. He didn't think so. If he promised, he'd feel the need to keep that promise, and while he could go haring off into the middle of the wilderness and practice magic with the Ministry none the wiser…what of his proper schooling? What of his friends? Although….

"I _must_ go back, Dobby. There's nothing for me here; I might as well be dead! Hogwarts is where my destiny lies, it's where my friends are—"

"Friends who don't even _write_ to Harry Potter?" asked Dobby, and Harry's eyes widened, and then narrowed. Was Dobby saying what Harry thought he was? He hadn't been receiving any mail, but—

"Dobby. How would you know that my friends haven't been writing to me?" His voice was deadly calm and level. This fact did not seem to escape Dobby, who squirmed under Harry's unfaltering gaze.

"Dobby, have you done something to my mail?"

Dobby wilted, and raised his left hand, and a bundle of letters, bound together, appeared above his hands, bound together with twine. He recognised individual handwritings—Hagrid's scratchy, wiry letters, Hermione's neat cursive, Ron's hasty scrawl. They'd all written to him, and he hadn't known. Ron's letter must be his birthday card. Harry swallowed, and sighed. Well, that answered one question.

Fury such as he was unaccustomed to bubbled up within him. Because, really, how dared anyone to do something so cruel as to cut Harry off completely from the only people who cared about him, when finally someone _did_?

"Give them here, Dobby," he said, his voice emotionless, and flat. Dead. Inside, internally, he seethed, but externally, he showed no sign of such.

"Harry Potter sir must promise that he won't—"

"I _said_ give them here. That is an order, Dobby."

"Harry Potter will not promise?"

"Especially not under duress," Harry said, arms folded. He glared at Dobby. This is what sympathy got you!

"Then Dobby has no choice! It is for your own good, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is very sorry, Harry Potter sir!" Dobby said, and, with those ominous words, he raced out the door, and down the stairs.

Harry wished for the invisibility cloak, or at least deeper magical reserves, as he hesitated in following, standing back, watching, as Dobby levitated a pudding Aunt Petunia had left atop the kitchen fridge. It stood, poised over the floor, high in the air, and Harry understood.

"Promise Dobby that you will not go to Hogwarts!" Dobby cried shrilly.

Harry decided it was best if he weren't in the area, and made himself scarce. A second later, the violent tinkling of the glass bowl shattering to pieces reached his ears, even in the safety of his bedroom. Uncle Vernon would never believe he wasn't the cause. Never.

A moment later, an unfamiliar shriek was his first forewarning that events were about to take a turn for the worst, before Uncle Vernon thundered up the steps, and to Harry's room, throwing wide the door.

"Boy! Explain _this_!" he cried, brandishing an envelope in his waving fist.

Despite the movement, Harry could read the address of the sender (Improper Use of Magic Office, Mafalda Hopkirk), and knew what the letter said. In that moment, he hated Dobby as thoroughly as he'd hated almost anyone he'd ever met. He reminded himself that there were other, greater malices and threats than Dobby out there, but still….

Uncle Vernon was going to kill him. And it was Dobby's fault. He clenched his fists, and then relaxed his left hand enough to take hold of the letter.

"I can't know unless I've read it, can I?" he asked, in his levelest voice. Judging by the lack of comment of freaky creatures invading their home, Dobby had vanished, taking Harry's mail with him. It was probably just as well.

Uncle Vernon handed over the letter, crowing, "Well, go on, read it!"

Either he had enough brains to figure out what the letter had said, or he'd read it himself. Judging by the fact that the seal on the envelope was broken, it was the latter. No way out of this one.

Bracing himself, he reached into the envelope, and pulled out the dread letter. His eyes quickly scanned the words, and he seethed. It was just as well that it wasn't possible for blood to _literally_ come to a boil from anger. A hovering charm, eh? And they knew the exact time, but not that he hadn't cast the charm, or even been present? How typical. This was just his luck. The only concession made by him was that he _had_ been practicing magic over the summer—but it wasn't wizarding magic, and therefore was none of their concern.

"So, not allowed to use magic over the summer, eh? I suppose it _slipped your mind_. Well, since you've ruined my business contract, I suppose we'll have to keep you out of the way while I try to fix things. You will stay here, in your room, for the rest of the summer. I will see to it. And if you try to use magic to escape, your freak school will expel you!"

And on that triumphant note, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut on Harry.

* * *

Uncle Vernon was even worse than his word. He installed a heavy duty lock and deadbolt on Harry's door, and put bars on the outside of Harry's window. It made Harry feel as if he were in prison, reminding him painfully of the end of his dreams. The last memories he had—timeline-wise, concerned the knowledge that Loki had been locked up in Asgard's dungeons. Harry wondered if this weren't the Norns laughing at him. If they were real, which was even more dubious than the rest of it.

He'd rarely seen Uncle Vernon display his handy side, despite knowing the man possessed it. It was telling that the only times Uncle Vernon had resorted to manual labour had been to try to keep Harry imprisoned and away from magic. But, as before, with the future nebulous and with a pressing dilemma limiting his options, Harry turned to the older magic, defiantly studying it, training himself late into the night of the Thirty-First, before the bars and lock had been installed. He knew what was to come for his part: a week of starvation, followed by at least ten days of short commons. The usual. But what of Hedwig?

He laid everything out before his mother, whom he was still halfway convinced could solve anything. Her expression was troubled as he told her the story.

Yes, she knew of house elves; no, she had never heard of Dobby; she didn't know how the Ministry tracked underage magic, exactly.

She wished that these events had happened earlier in the week, that they might already have known what punishment the Dursleys had in store for Harry this time. Had it been on Monday, Harry might have been able to send off a red ring with Errol. As it was, he was on his own. Hedwig's cage was locked, and, as he now realised was a stupid oversight, he had never learnt how to pick locks. The Twins might know; perhaps he could ask them. If he survived long enough to see them again.

But those were the superficial questions. The truth was, he had no idea how long it took an owl to starve to death, but he had little faith in the animal-hating Dursleys to show compassion and basic decency towards his loyal owl. Deep down, he'd already come to the very conclusion his mother reluctantly reached: the only thing he could do was to try to appeal to the Dursleys, and meanwhile sustain her with magic, as Loki had once held Thor back from the brink of death.

Of course, Harry had no experience with doing this, and he would, furthermore, be draining his own life energy for this, because he knew he didn't have enough magical reserves to sustain both himself and Hedwig for even a week, the week in which he'd receive no food. He'd use up whatever nutrients he'd recovered in his last meal, and burn through any fat he might have on his body, besides, but that wouldn't be enough. He was going to be cutting things very close.

It was just as well that the idea of releasing Hedwig had been thrown out (he needed a way of contacting others, if he could just figure out _how_), because he would never have been able to fit her through the bars.

Harry's practicing magic came in the form of drawing off his own magical reserves, and then his life energy, to sustain himself and Hedwig. He was beginning to realise that he'd done this all along, that it was perhaps what caused the Dursleys to favour such a harsh punishment to begin with.

Uncle Vernon came to install the bars and lock on the morrow, on the First of August. That began the unofficial countdown to the point where Harry would drain himself. Still, as he reminded himself all that day, after his pleas to Aunt Petunia fell on deaf ears, he need only sustain them for a week, this time. Today was Saturday, after all. Tomorrow, Ron would send off Errol, Tuesday, he would arrive to discover that he couldn't enter, and would perforce return empty-clawed, and on Thursday, Ron would learn the truth.

Thursday, Harry's distracted mind noted. _Thor's_ day. Was it to be his protector; was Thor his protector? Did his lightning bolt scar continue to bind their fates together? What _had_ become of Thor?

There was little else to think of besides, that first day. He funneled a small amount of magical energy into sustaining Hedwig, who had somehow survived on the Dursleys' idea of regular commons, thus far, but who now needed a supplement. He knew that it took longer than a week for him to starve to death, even whilst using magic. He figured that he wouldn't need to waste precious magic energy on sustaining himself, trapped in his room as he was, with nothing to do.

On the Second of August, Harry was startled out of a reverie by the door to his room softly clicking open, as Aunt Petunia entered, carrying a styrofoam tray.

She walked across the room to him, and shoved a tray of cheap ground turkey into his hands.

"Here," she said. "For the bird," she added unnecessarily. "My precious Duddy is such a sweet boy, he loves animals so much he couldn't bear the thought of your owl starving, associated with a freak like you as she is. Feed her the meat, then. I don't want anything to upset Duddy."

Harry raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He tore open the package of meat, and with practiced ease began to gather the meat into a wad that wouldn't immediately fall apart, holding it out for Hedwig.

Halfway through, he turned back to Aunt Petunia. It had to be said, no matter how galling it was. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia. For listening. For saving Hedwig."

Her lip curled, as she eyed the packet with revulsion, and Hedwig with a similar look. "Don't thank me. It was Dudley's idea. I hate animals! All they do is make a mess! But Duddy wouldn't hear of it. He has such a big heart—"

"Well, I doubt that I'll be allowed out of here for the rest of summer. Please thank him for me."

She gave no response, and Harry returned to his task.

Aunt Petunia watched him the whole time with a sneer of disgust on her face, but in the end, she took away the empty packet, and left the room.

Somehow, it seemed to strengthen him, the knowledge that Hedwig's survival, at least, seemed assured. It seemed incredible that Dudley had interceded on her behalf, but he knew how much Aunt Petunia hated animals, and he doubted that Uncle Vernon would be able to overcome the glee he felt at seeing Harry's suffering long enough to take pity on an innocent bird.

But Hedwig was safe, and alive. That was what mattered. That, and holding out until next Saturday, the ninth. And he knew he could make it, now he no longer had to worry about Hedwig.


	30. Rescue

**Chapter Thirty: Rescue**

Harry's supposition, had he but known it, was correct: for the most part, Errol left the Weasleys' home (known as The Burrow) on Sunday, and returned on Thursday. This meant that he had two days' reprieve before being sent out again. The general consensus was that, while hardly fair for Errol, and while it was certain to exhaust him, he _did_ get time to recover, and it was vital to know that Harry was safe.

Even Molly Weasley accepted that fact. What she had heard of the Dursleys, even third-hand, made her worry and fret over Harry's well-being. She might not quite believe what she heard, but she knew that his circumstances were not good.

Still, they were now halfway through the summer without incident, and if the Dursleys had any soul at all, they'd go easy on Harry on his birthday, surely….

Thor sent Errol out on the following Sunday, as usual, more assured in his decision to wait than he had been in the beginning of summer; if the Dursleys' opinions had radically altered over the course of last year, this had had plenty of time in which to show itself. Still, these check-ins were a form of reassurance; for whatever reason, perhaps because Harry'd _died_, Thor was sure that his younger brother was somehow in more danger than he had been before they'd met again.

He was proven right, of course, when Errol returned the following Wednesday night, as if he'd pushed himself to his limits, empty-taloned. He gave a few apologetic hoots in Thor's direction, but his audience was mostly too fixated on solving the relevant problem—what to do, what to do!—to pay attention. All Errol's behaviour did was to confirm what he already knew.

He decided against telling the Twins first thing. What he needed to do was sneak off on his own, and find out where Number Four, Privet Drive was, to make absolutely certain that this wasn't a mere error. Then, he could see what the Twins had to say about a rescue attempt.

Which meant sneaking out under cover of darkness, and somehow returning before Mum and Dad became aware of his absence. No one had expected Errol to come back so soon, but "soon" happened to mean "in the middle of the night". He'd reported in to Thor first, or the household would be in an uproar. It was the only thing working in his favour, he knew. Time was against him, but he didn't dare to delay.

Just how far away from Ottery St. Catchpole _was_ Little Whinging, exactly?

His preparation for what was now the inevitable rescue mission had only been a trip to the library to borrow a map. He knew that it wasn't that far—a day's drive, at most. But that was still quite a bit of time, if he were hoping to get there and back without being noticed. Unlike his journey to the hospital, there was no one to cover for him, and he didn't have an invisibility cloak to hide him.

He sort of missed the ability to travel by lightning, now. But hadn't Father said something about that ability being intrinsic to who he was, or something?

Or, if only he'd learnt Asgardian magic from Mother, as Loki had.

Although…wizards had a form of instantaneous transportation, too. And then, there was….

Oh, no. That was a very bad idea. Surely, it must be. And yet…how else to get back between the two locations in one night? He'd just have to hope he had enough money for it.

With a sigh, he grabbed Charlie's old wand, climbed out the window, and set off at a brisk walk away from home. He didn't want to stand out—Natasha had told him as much—but he also didn't want to move too slowly, for obvious reasons. He just had to get far enough away for no one to notice if he called the Knight Bus. Simple enough.

Far too time consuming. Still, it didn't take _that_ long to reach a deserted street. Then, he held out his arm, as he'd heard it was done, and, in a flash, stepped back in time to keep his feet as a lurid purple bus suddenly appeared in the middle of the street, and a boy a few years older than he currently was appeared.

* * *

The Knight Bus was not an experience he particularly wanted to repeat. It left even him dizzy and a bit nauseated and light-headed, which was saying something; he'd previously assumed that nothing was capable of such. Perhaps it was because his body was sort-of mortal. He wasn't sure, and, as he'd told Stephen, his case was unique. There was no means of researching how similar individuals had fared.

Still, at least he had a brief reprieve before he needed to hail the bus, again. While not exactly cheap, he'd been saving his money for quite some time, and that added up. Still…it was cheaper than he'd expected. Possibly because it was something of an acquired taste.

The brisk night air did him good, helped to revive him, that he might turn his attention to more important matters. Namely, finding Harry, and reining in his temper, lest he do unspeakable harm to the Dursleys when he discovered what unforgivable offence they'd committed this time.

He took a deep breath. No sense getting worked up before he made sure, was there?

He closed his eyes, and invoked Mother's magic, the only way he'd be able to find Harry, no matter the landmarks he'd been given. He kept an eye out for them, anyway, but he knew his primary reference was Mother's spell. Although he didn't encounter Stonewall High, or the Little Whinging Public Library, he _did_ come across Wisteria Walk, and Magnolia Crescent. Even though he didn't know precisely whither he was bound, he was still tempted to pick up his pace.

Instead, he closed his eyes, determined to maintain his focus, wondering if all Asgardian magic was this fickle and unwieldy. How had Loki managed to keep up several spells at once, then?

He'd never stopped to appreciate the skill that must have required, before, which was another sobering realisation, another place where he'd taken his brother's skill for granted.

Of course, he was paying for it, now.

The streets were quiet, lit only by the streetlamps lining the roads, showcasing the cookie cutter houses, with their identical yards. Everything just the same as everything else. He wondered how Harry had even _found_ any landmarks for him. He wondered how he'd be able to guide anyone back to this spot. Perhaps he should have brought Fred and George, after all.

He hadn't found Number Four, Privet Drive, yet, he reminded himself. He hadn't even found _Privet Drive_ yet. Perhaps, somehow, it would be distinctive.

It was not. In fact, he very nearly passed right by Number Four, Privet Drive. The walk was so boring that he had become lost in thought, which, as anyone who knew him would agree, was most unusual for him. But he turned before he could pass the forgettable building by, pausing to consider, before going around the side, still feeling quite out of his element, with all this sneaking about. He was the direct sort of person. Sneaking around was against his nature.

He knew Harry's bedroom at once: it was the one with the bars on the windows. It put him in mind of older times (newer times) of prisoners and punishments. What crime could Harry have committed since his return home that merited such?

And then he understood: Harry had had to return Errol empty-taloned because he hadn't been able to deliver a ring through these bars. They were a new addition, the product of the Dursleys' malice.

He forced electricity back, again, although this time his hands were out of his pockets, creating a miniature lightshow on the street, had any been there to see. They weren't. He briefly considered whether or not it was really healthy, suppressing the electricity thus, but he had no choice unless he wanted to make a spectacle of himself, and that ran counter to his current objective.

How to get to the second floor window. That required some thought, again. But he'd limited himself to mortal means thus far for a reason, and he was not about to stop now.

He wondered if Harry was still awake, if he was watching. If he knew Harry were asleep, he might be tempted to take more chances. It was just as well that he didn't know, one way or the other.

He would never be able to climb the side of the house, he decided, staring at the wall, which had no footholds. What had he expected, a limestone castle?

Perhaps he needed to take a risk.

He leapt for the second storey window, and from the force of practice managed to grab hold of the outside bar. It shrilled against his ears. But he managed to pull himself up, to peer into the window.

There was a split second where Harry remained utterly still, lying, evidently asleep, in a rather plain wooden bed, before he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, gaze snapping to the window in a gesture that made Thor think of the incident at the hospital, despite himself. Harry's eyes widened, and the tension left his body, as he saw who was at the window, quickly covered by an amused smirk, as he shook his head, striding over to the window, and sliding it open. All this in such a short time, the average mortal would probably fail to notice it at all.

"Hello, Ron," he said. He sounded wide-awake, and alert. "Fancy seeing you here."

Far too awake, and alert. It raised the question: what had his upbringing been, to cause that moment of panic before he'd realised the situation? Why was his first reaction to sudden awakening been such wary caution?

Thor swallowed, and tried hard not to dwell upon such matters. Someday, somehow, the Dursleys would pay for what they had done, but that day was not today.

A glance around the room showed that, first of all, Harry was locked into his room both from the outside, via the barred windows, and from the inside, via the deadbolt blocking the door from being opened. Then, too he noticed that the room was completely bare of any personalising items. There was an alarm clock on a bookshelf, a few books, and Hedwig's cage. Then, there was a wardrobe, off to the side, and the bed. Harry's school supplies were nowhere to be seen, nor was there any muggle means of entertainment.

"Yes, it's quite something, isn't it?" asked Harry lightly. "I don't suppose you want to come in?"

"That was not my purpose in coming, no," Thor said, blinking at the random offer. He wondered how long he could hang out the window before it became suspicious. "You did not send Errol back with one of the black rings. As I promised, I came to ensure that you were still well. I see that my fears were justified. But I am unacquainted with lock-picking, although I believe that the Twins are not. I shall return with them tomorrow."

"Leaving so soon?" asked Harry, crossing his arms in a fake pout. "You just arrived."

"I can't hang from your window forever," Thor said, feeling rather defensive despite realising that Harry was joking. "And it _has_ taken me over an hour to find this place. I took the Knight Bus," he explained, with a failed attempt at a shrug. Harry cocked his head, and Thor decided that it wouldn't hurt to explain a bit more.

"The Knight Bus is a magical means of transportation. It allows for transportation to anywhere on land. It is quite impressive. However…it is a bit difficult to…stomach, and those who pay first arrive first. I suppose on a busier night, it might have taken several hours to reach Little Whinging. I ought to have been more specific."

"How much did it cost?" asked Harry, eyes narrowing. Thor frowned, confused.

"Er—" he began, a bit nonplussed. What was Harry—?

"I will reimburse you your costs," he said. "As this is, technically speaking, a service you are providing. Don't you dare protest—!" he added, seeing Thor open his mouth to speak. This was every bit as frustrating as trying to talk to Loki back when Loki had still been the one scolding _him_ for reckless actions. It was more or less habit to do as ordered.

Harry leant forwards, towards the window. "I have every confidence that someone must be paying for my room and board, even here. 'Family loyalty' would only go so far with the Dursleys. The least I can do is ensure that you can afford to come here to check on _me_. Naturally, my money is with the rest of my school things, in the cupboard under the stairs—my old bedroom, you know. Already enough freakiness there that a little more won't hurt."

Bitterness lay heavy in his voice, a familiar bitterness that was best left in Thor's nightmares. Had Dumbledore set Harry on the path to repeating Loki's mistakes? He wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but see how ignoring the warning signs had availed him before!

But Harry shook his head, as if to rid it of those problematic thoughts, and gave a thin smile. Then he snickered, and grinned.

"I just thought how this must look," he half-explained. "What, are we practicing _Romeo and Juliet_, here? That's probably what the Dursleys would think, if they walked in—"

Thor frowned, confused. "…'_Romeo and Juliet'_?"

Harry's expression turned blank. "Yeah. You know, the quintessential tragic love story? Shakespeare? Ring any bells?"

He cocked his head, as if a different angle would show him that Thor was, in fact, joking. But he wasn't. However, one thing _did_ stand out in the stream of whatever Harry had just said.

"…'Shakespeare'? What's that?" he asked. He seemed to be parroting whatever Harry said back to him, but he couldn't help his curiosity, now. He knew that word. He knew that he knew that word, and not just as some odd imperative about brandishing weapons.

_Shakespeare in the Park. Does Mother know you weareth her drapes?_ asked the memory of Tony's voice. He had doubtless been intended to make something of it, even then.

Harry looked appalled, and rather horrified. His head sank into his hands. Then, he snapped back to attention, looking quite determined.

"No," he said. "I refuse to accept that. You _must_ have heard of Shakespeare. _Everyone_ has heard of Shakespeare."

Thor just stared back at him, blankly.

"Come _on_," said Harry. "_Henry V_? _The Taming of the Shrew? A Midsummer Night's Dream_? _Hamlet_? _**Macbeth**_?"

Harry watched with what seemed ever-mounting despair as Thor shook his head to each name in turn. Harry threw his hands into the air, at last, in exasperation. He wandered over to the sparse-populated bookshelf against the side of the room, and began rearranging what few books lay there.

"No. I refuse to accept that," he said again. "I am somewhat partial to drama myself, and there is no way I can just stand back and let _anyone_ remain ignorant of the greatest playwright of this millennium, at the very least. I don't care if you don't read, Ron, you are going to read _this_," he said, shoving a thin paperback through the bars. Luckily, he kept hold of it, because Thor was still somehow keeping himself aloft by holding on to the alarmingly sturdy bars of the window. He could feel this one trying to come loose. He must be running out of time.

"Ah, er, Harry, I am holding on to the window with both hands," he reminded him. "Perhaps this could wait until tomorrow."

"Such an _offence_ cannot be allowed to stay as it is for longer than absolutely necessary."

"It can wait until tomorrow," Thor said, in what he hoped was a no-nonsense voice. Not that that had ever stopped _anyone_ from arguing with him. Harry folded his arms, pressing the thin volume into his side. Perhaps it was the elephantine size of Dudley's cast-offs, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Where did that book come from, then?" Thor asked. He was under the impression that the Dursleys actively worked to prevent Harry from finding anything that might make him happy.

"I stole it from the school library," said Harry with a shrug. Thor might have chastised him, but he remembered what he'd just been thinking, about the Dursleys going out of their way to keep Harry unhappy. How _else_ could Harry have acquired anything before he came to Hogwarts, except by theft? The Dursleys clearly didn't let him keep his own money; all ordinary legal recourse was out of the question. Still…it was a stark contrast to their old life. Neither of them had much of anything in this one.

And Harry was offering this to him, if even only to borrow. What did _that_ signify?

Harry shrugged. "If it must wait, I shall wait," he conceded, but Thor sensed that he was not as indifferent to this course of events as he sounded. But he had no means of taking hold of the book, and any other way of transferring it through the window risked damaging it. There was no way he was risking damage to one of Harry's few possessions.

"Then I shall return, with Fred and George, and we will rescue you tomorrow night," Thor vowed. Harry gave another thin smile.

"Yes," he said. "But be sure you learn whether or not they know how to pick locks, first," he agreed, his gaze downcast, as if looking at something only he could see.

* * *

To say that the next night went off without a hitch would be a gross exaggeration, and rather untrue.

First, they had to find a way to remove the bars from the windows; forewarned (if angry that 'Ickle Ronniekins' had gone off without them), they nevertheless made use of their forewarning, bringing the family flying car with them. They tied rope around the bars, and pulled them from where they were lodged into the window frame.

Harry, meanwhile, had gathered Hedwig's cage, and the copy of _Hamlet_ he had stolen from the school library, and was prepared to hand these over, sending off Fred with a warning about the creaky stair in the flight leading down to the ground level. The cupboard under the stairs was easy enough to find, but Fred returned in a bad humour, demanding to know why it looked as if there were a mattress in there, and a blanket. Harry paled, and visibly searched for excuses, urging everyone to be as quiet as possible. Fred frowned, as if suddenly wrong-footed, and glanced at Thor, who looked away.

Yes, he knew. And the Dursleys had best be thankful that there was nothing yet that he could do about them without drawing unnecessary attention—from the Wizarding World, or from home. While it would doubtless be an interesting experience, he didn't relish the thought of meeting his younger self, particularly if said younger self brought his younger brother with him.

But that thought was set somewhere into a hypothetical future, one he didn't intend to permit to be realised. Instead, he did his best to alleviate tensions amongst their group, and Harry joined Fred in carrying Harry's belongings (of which there were alarmingly few) back into Harry's room. It was Thor's job to receive them and find space for them in the car—not a difficult task, considering how little Harry had to call his. While they waited for Harry and Fred to return, George picked the lock keeping Hedwig's cage shut. Thor had half a mind to remind him to keep his hands on the steering wheel, but…well, they weren't going anywhere yet, were they?

Hedwig appreciated her newfound freedom by flying in a circle around the car, just the once, before landing on top of her cage with a quiet hoot.

A few moments later, Harry and Fred returned with what little Harry had brought back from Hogwarts. Inside that trunk, Thor knew, were Harry's most prized possessions, amongst them the Nimbus Two Thousand that Professor McGonagall had bought him, and Harry's Dad's invisibility cloak.

That was all it took, those two trips, and it had only required two because Fred had lost focus once he caught sight of Harry's erstwhile lodgings. He was clearly still stewing on the matter, and Thor knew that Harry mustn't come to associate The Burrow with further inquisition. He did his best to steer the conversation away from such dread topics as they arose, although that wasn't saying much. Harry, however, seemed to notice, with something of a grimace.

Fred seemed much calmer back at The Burrow, but his jaw was set at an angle suggesting they had not heard the last of this.

Unfortunately, such concerns had to be set aside as who should come rushing forth to encounter them than…Mum.

Technically, she had no authority over him, or maybe she did, but either way, it didn't matter: she was the single most terrifying woman he'd ever met, and that list included both Sif and Natasha. He suspected it was the fact that, on an ordinary day, she was so sweet and kind that, when she was angry…it stood out.

Right now, even Harry looked a bit…startled. He shrank back into himself, as if from habit, until Thor rested a hand on his brother's shoulder: reassurance, strength. He glanced up at Mum, willing her to see how much she was scaring Harry before…something bad happened. What, Thor couldn't begin to guess.

"Hello, Harry, dear," Mum said, when she'd finished her rant about how irresponsible it was for them to have taken the car, they could have been _seen_, they could have cost Dad his _job_. Harry cringed and squirmed backwards, and Thor leant forwards to whisper, "Peace. She will not fault _you_."

And sure enough, Mum was quick to continue,

"Oh, relax. I don't blame _you_, Harry dear. Please, come in."

"Welcome to The Burrow," Thor said, as the pushed the door open for Harry, whom he was still right behind, steering him around the obstacles that comprised the front yard. Covered in gnome holes, again. Oh, well.

Harry took in the inside of the house with slightly more interest, showing that he was beginning to recover from Mum's tongue-lashing. Good.

"I know it's not much," he said, feeling the need to justify The Burrow to an outsider, "but—"

Harry closed his eyes, for a second or two, tilting his head back. A soft smile spread across his face, not the usual bitter smirk Thor was most familiar with, or a grimace.

"I think it's _wonderful_," he decided, as if at that very moment. "Full of love and life. The way a house ought to be."


	31. The Trials of Ginny Weasley

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Trials of Ginny Weasley**

Harry did indeed love the house, which was as different as it was possible to be from Number Four. The Burrow was, as he had himself said, full of life and love, and magic, too, of varying states of solidity and intelligence, and rarely any specialties.

Mrs. Weasley took some getting used to, fussing over him as she did. He hoped that Ron, Fred, and George would get reduced sentences pending her realisation that Fred had been completely honest when he had told his mother, in his own defence, naturally, "But they were starving him, Mum!", which statement was undeniable, because this would have been the seventh day in a row he went without any food.

Despite this painful fact, he forewent Mrs. Weasley's delicious cooking to observe the new spectacle that was de-gnoming a garden. He'd explained that it was generally agreed in muggle medicine that people who had gone too long without food should be eased in to the process. Was it different for wizards? He couldn't know, but he thought he shouldn't risk it.

Ron, Fred, and George all remembered that he'd had no such reservations about the Welcome Feast at Hogwarts (and no such problems, either), but they kept their silence to a man, without even need of conference. That was an impressive sort of bond.

An unexpected answer to an old question came when Mrs. Weasley declared that, for their crime, her three sons were to de-gnome the garden.

"Let's see what Lockhart has to say about this," she said. There was an odd tone in her voice, one which Harry couldn't readily identify,

"Lockhart?" he asked no one in particular.

"An old fraud," said George, scoffing. "He's written a lot of rubbish."

"Mum fancies him, though. She reckons he's _brilliant_," Fred sighed.

Harry took one glance at the picture of the man with artificially wavy blond hair, and finally understood the prank the Twins had pulled on Ron last year. It seemed even crueler now.

"So _that's_ where Ron's curlers came from!" he cried, and then covered his mouth. He'd forgotten to be quiet. The room momentarily silenced, and then Fred slung a conspiratorial hand over his shoulder as Ron hung his head, as if too disturbed by the memory, trying to block it out.

"Yes, indeed, little brother," said George. "So glad you caught on, finally."

"Well, I've never _heard_ of this Lockhart before," Harry protested, indignant. "How could I, trapped at Privet Drive as I've been?"

Everyone's mood soured at that, and the point was conceded.

"Boys, behave yourselves! If you think you know better than Lockhart, then just leave! You'd best get this done before the day gets too hot, now hadn't you! And I _do not fancy Lockhart!_"

The pink in her cheeks belied her words, even without Harry's ever-observant lie-detection ability.

Harry sighed, and stood along with everyone else. "Not you, Harry, dear. You didn't ask them to drive you across England in that flying car. I can't believe Arthur—!"

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Weasley. I haven't had the opportunity to do much _besides_ sleep, lately. And I've never seen a de-gnoming before…."

"Oh, it's dreadfully boring work," she assured him, but he smiled at her, instead.

"Thank you for taking me in, Mrs. Weasley, and for the food. It's delicious."

He slipped out the door before Ron. The Twins followed, with longing glances at the breakfast Mrs. Weasley was still working on.

"_Everyone_ knows better than Lockhart," George grumbled. "Even Ron."

Ron started, apparently too deep in thought to realise that they might mention him and drag him into the conversation.

Harry, sensing a cue, turned to Ron. "Ron, how _do_ you de-gnome a garden?"

* * *

Harry settled into life at The Burrow with appreciable speed, aided by the sympathy and generosity of (most of) the family. Fred and George, even, were welcoming in their own way, and Bill, the eldest Weasley son, and Charlie, the second eldest, on temporary vacation to visit their family, were cordial, friendly, sorts. Mrs. Weasley fussed endlessly over how skinny he was, and tried to make him eat third and fourth helpings at meals.

Mr. Weasley was fascinated with muggle culture, and pestered Harry on the purpose and history of such diverse objects as rubber ducks to spark plugs. He decided that, after cars, televisions were the most marvelous invention, and tried to set about figuring out how to get one to run.

Despite his fascination with muggles, he never seemed to be able to pronounce the word "electricity" properly, a fact which caused Ron to sigh in what seemed fond exasperation, the Twins to laugh, and Percy to huff. The end of fifth year had not put Percy in better spirits; he spent far too much time studying and fretting over his results, and was quite as high-strung as before, suggesting that that was just inherent in his nature, and not caused by stress.

And then, there was Ginny. Ah, Ginny. From the time he had arrived, he had seen very little of the youngest Weasley, except for at meals. She seemed to spend most of her time hiding from him, whether in her room, or if not, where, he didn't know, and he wasn't inclined to stalk her to discover her whereabouts.

At least, not at first. But he had to admit to being…perhaps a bit _miffed_, at the knowledge that, while the rest of the Weasleys seemed to tolerate him, at the very least, Ginny was avoiding him as if he were…well…a _monster_.

She was just shy, he told himself. After all, she blushed and stammered and had all sorts of minor accidents when he was around, and it made sense that not _all_ of the Weasleys would be able to avoid the star-stricken madness that was his celebrity. But everyone seemed intent upon commenting on how odd it was for Ginny to be this quiet and withdrawn. Was something wrong with her?

Was he the cause? he wondered, instead, brooding to himself. Did she sense that there was something _not right_ about him?

Well, somehow or other, he'd just have to change her mind. Perhaps she was merely star-stricken, as indeed she seemed to be. While rather annoying, this could be dealt with, and she'd eventually grow out of it, anyway. But, the alternative….

It was then that he came upon a most ingenious, or, to put it more accurately, rather stupid, plan. But, when Ginny awoke the next morning, sopping wet and miserable (he knew too little how to prank someone _without_ the use of magic, which made it fortunate for him, and highly unfortunate for her), she just blamed the Twins, and then had her mother help her to get properly dry again.

It took three days of attempts at what he could manage of magicless, muggle tricks before the Twins caught on, and gave him the helpful advice that the Ministry could not detect magic done in wizarding homes. Which was highly unfair, but he wasn't about to complain. Or to obey the law, when he'd never agreed to it, and had already been punished for breaking it.

It _was_ rather frustrating that, no matter what he tried, from redecorating her room into a Slytherin scheme, or rearranging her calendar so that she mistook what day it was (or crossing out a few more days on the calendar, so that she seemed to have less time than she had), to _dyeing her hair black_, she just thought that it was Fred or George messing with her.

The Twins, while perplexed, and flummoxed, as to _why_ Harry would _want_ Ginny to know that he was the one behind it all, nevertheless somehow contrived to be away from the house overnight. How they convinced their mother to let them stay the night at Jordan's was to forever remain a secret, but Harry was grateful to them. He resolved to make this one count.

He had, of course, been spending much less time than he ought with Ron, but Ron left him alone, as if sensing that interrupting him when he was on a mission was a bad idea. His shift in focus had been rather abrupt; the first week he'd hung out with Ron, working on homework together, or playing quidditch (or chess), and then, suddenly, Harry's attention was all fixated on solving the current problem.

Perhaps it was a sign of maturity, that Ron left him alone. He would worry about it later. For now, he took advantage of the fact that Ron had found other things to do.

Like…reading Shakespeare? Harry'd definitely comment on that later. Right now, he needed to think. (Had he been _reading_ the past few days? _Ron_?)

"Alright, Ginny," he said. "Let's see if you can overlook _this."_

Ron glanced up from _Hamlet_, frowned, and reached out a hand, and then let it drop.

This was something of the equivalent of a _carte __blanche_, for Harry, who took the opportunity to excessively plan out what he needed to do. Part of the problem was that nothing could be permanent; everything he did, he ensured was something that could be undone, with relative ease, by magic. He didn't want to irreparably damage something just because he was trying to get Ginny to talk to him. That would have the opposite of the desired effect. He knew that much.

Everything he'd done, to some degree or other, was difficult to remove, which was why Ginny still had Slytherin pennants hanging from her walls, and black hair. The short-lived era of muggle pranks were the most insoluble. And an eraser—or the simple passage of time, would undo the muggle round of damage he'd done to her calendar. A quick drying charm took care of everything but her wet hair. But the moment he'd started using magic, he'd veered just slightly to the side of the normal road, walking alongside a familiar path. He'd built in resistance in most of his spells to things like _finite incantatem_, sometimes even daring to bolster an ordinary spell with his _other_ sort of magic.

When he didn't just resort to that altogether. Hey, he already knew how to manipulate that magic. As long as he stuck to effects that he knew how to replicate (more or less), with _wizarding_ magic….

Well, he was still limited to the first-year courseload.

He snuck into Ginny's room in the middle of the night, which by now was familiar terrain. He managed to transfigure one of her fake trophies into something more alarming, and had already superficially disfigured the rest of her posters (all of which seemed to be of a quidditch team known as the Holyhead Harpies, whoever they were). She had a few books, and some _non-_quidditch related paraphernalia, but she didn't even have a stuffed animal that she slept with. And the fact that she grew up with Fred and George made her difficult to startle. He essentially had the options of giving up the ghost, or upping the ante, and using more advanced spells. Stuff covered in the year two curriculum, say, which, having yet to go to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies, he had no way of knowing what those might be.

But who was there to suspect him, anyway? Not to suspect that he'd been behind all of this—that was the point. But who would think he was using non-wizarding magic?

Ginny awoke in the middle of the night before he could make a mistake. He froze, unsure what to do. He hadn't stayed as long on previous rounds, which perhaps explained why she hadn't woken up, or perhaps, subconsciously, the absence of the Twins made _any_ nocturnal visitor more suspicious. He didn't know.

"Who's there?" she demanded, breathing heavy in the moonlight streaming in from her open window. The air might almost be considered cool, but then, it _was_ the middle of the night. "Answer me now, or I swear I'll—"

"Hello, Ginny," Harry said, raising a hand to wave at her in a half-awkward way, and stepping back from the wall.

Her eyes narrowed, hair flying around her in a whorling ring as she spun to face him.

"Who—?"

"It is only I. Harry," he clarified, into the tension that followed. She rocked where she stood.

"H-Harry?" she asked. She reached out a hand, and flipped on a lightswitch near her bed. Her eyes were wide, her breathing still pronounced and heavy. She glanced at him, wild-eyed, and her eyes narrowed. "…Harry Potter?" she asked, sounding a bit faint.

"No, Harry Houdini," Harry said lightly.

Ginny collapsed onto her bed, sniffling. "What—what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice tremulous and weak. Well, she was talking to him. That had to be a start.

"Er," Harry began, and then paused, uncertain of where to go with the rest of his sentence. He hadn't expected her to wake up, more or less alert, and demand answers. He had, the first few times, but by now—

"This is _my_ room, Harry," she said, her voice low and morose. Weak. Feeble. "Why—why have you—?"

She seemed to be fighting back tears, and Harry understood just how far out of his arena he'd stepped. _Now_ what did he do?

"Er—" he said, again, this time with even less idea of what to say.

"How _dare_ you come into my room without my permission? In the middle of the night? What were you thinking!" she demanded. Her eyes were red, and she was crying, but her voice was raised, and he realised that he'd rather not deal with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley bursting in on him in the middle of the night. Perhaps this whole idea had, in fact, been stupid.

Hey, she was talking to him. He cocked his head, unsure what the fuss was.

"Well…I mean, I thought…. Well, your brothers share rooms. What's the problem?" he asked.

"The 'problem' is that this is _my_ room!" Ginny cried, throwing her arms up in the air. "It's supposed to be my _sanctuary_. How would you feel if someone invaded _your_ room in the middle of the night?"

He shrugged. "That's not likely to happen. I mean, the Dursleys avoid me as much as possible, and the bars they put on the outside window—"

No, he still didn't get what she meant. He thought of what he knew of living quarters. The smallest bedroom, at Number Four. Avoided by everyone, and made impregnable by all except the most determined by his Uncle Vernon, safe—for everyone _but_ him. Nope.

The cupboard under the stairs. A place to be starved and tortured and shunned, to be put to be forgotten, or for storage, the way you might put away a mop or a broom. No safety there.

The gryffindor dorms. Shared with several other boys, and therefore besides the point. Safety in numbers, perhaps, but irrelevant with regards to her query.

Loki's room. Rarely visited except for sleep. Loki had turned to the library for everything from refuge to answers, knowing that few would venture there. He'd had attendants, as everyone highborn seemed to, although they'd kept to themselves. But he'd never been _alone_ in his rooms, and therefore, had sought for privacy elsewhere.

Ginny huffed, and sighed, a lost little sound, muffled and bleak. Glancing at her face, he saw that she was crying. His heart wrenched a little, at the sight. His conscience twinged. He hadn't meant…. "You really don't get it, do you?" she asked.

He shook his head, lowering his gaze away from her.

"I'm sorry," he said, helplessly. "I just wanted to talk to you, and you were avoiding me. It made me feel a freak, the way the Dursleys do. I suppose I overstepped my bounds, but I didn't realise—"

She stared at him, cocked her head to the side, resting her chin on her hands.

"It's my room, and it's private. Off bounds. Girls only," Ginny said. "You wouldn't understand. You're a boy."

Harry said nothing. Ginny sighed. "You're the one who's been pranking me, then?" she asked, her tone almost businesslike. She brushed her hair back from her eyes without looking, turning to glance at him, instead. He just nodded, still mute.

"You've no right to violate my personal space," she said, eyes narrowing at him. He nodded. He didn't feel like much of anyone right now. Not a prince. Not a hero. Not even _Harry Potter, that delinquent freak_. It figured that he'd slipped up, ruined everything. What else did he deserve?

"I'll just go, then," he managed to say. He wouldn't be surprised if she couldn't even hear his words. You had to strain to listen to them. He made for the door. Hesitated.

"Although…with your permission, I think I could fix your room, at least."

Silence. Ginny waved a hand in the air, in a gesture of dismissal. As if she were a princess, or a queen, on a high throne.

Mother had red hair. It was a stupid time to think of it, but there the thought was. Black hair didn't suit Ginny. He'd chosen it as a clue, but she'd overlooked it, thought the Twins were teasing her.

"Go ahead," she sighed, running a hand through her hair, starting as she noticed its colour before sighing, withdrawing her hand, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"_Servo stellas_," Harry whispered. It was a spell he'd come up with himself, a spell that made the spells after it more powerful for a while. He didn't know what sort of magic it was, and therefore was reluctant to share it, but it meant that he could overpower the magical resistance he'd embedded in the wizarding spells he'd used.

Ginny supervised his efforts to set her room to rights. He fixed the posters and the sculptures, and the dancing unicorns on her bookshelf. He fixed the calendar, and the trophies, and the door. All that remained was Ginny's hair.

"I suppose I should go, now," he said, eyes still downcast. He'd mastered this at the Dursleys. When you made a mistake, call as little attention to yourself as possible. Ride out the storm as best you could with the scant refuge provided, and show only contrition. Don't talk back.

"Wait!" Ginny cried, and then put a hand over her mouth, as if surprised by her own noise. "What does it mean? _'Servo stellas_'?"

She'd heard that? She wasn't supposed to, and he didn't know if it was even really a wizarding spell, although it came from Latin.

"'_I save the stars'_," he murmured in reply. "It lends extra power to some spells."

"That's really neat," she said. "I've never heard of a spell like that. It sounds really useful. And pretty."

She sighed, a distant expression crossing her features.

He would not ask her not to tell her parents that he'd been here. He deserved any punishment he got. He turned to the door. Opened it. Was halfway through, when Ginny ordered him, again: "wait!".

He waited.

"Can you…?" she blushed, looking down at the floor. "Can you fix my hair, too?"

He turned back around to face her, cocked his head, closed the door, inaudibly, behind him.

"Hmm," he said, considering. "Perhaps. But the only reason I was able to get the dye to take to begin with was because you were calm. Don't ask me why; something about that hair-dye spell seems to be dependent upon mood. You were really peaceful and calm, so I was able to work it in without any problem, but now…."

"I'm calm!" Ginny protested, indignation ringing clear in her tone even without her crossed arms, or the way she was slouched in a pout.

He raised an eyebrow in response, slightly more confident that he hadn't ruined everything, yet.

"I really am!" she cried, giving him an almost-level look.

He sighed, and walked over to her, resigned to at least trying. What could it hurt? He closed his eyes, muttering something indistinct and meaningless, as he gathered energy into his hands, approaching Ginny.

"Are you going to trust me, then?" he asked lightly. False levity, the sort that fooled most everyone. It fooled Ginny, at least.

"Just this once," she agreed, and he blinked, startled. He'd expected a reply to the effect of, "no, my eyes are on you at all times".

He wove a net of magic around his fingers, the mesh super-fine and thin as silk. He dragged it through her hair, and she shivered. To her, it probably felt as if he were gently running his fingers through her hair.

"What an odd feeling," she murmured. She giggled. "That sort of tickles! How did I _not_ wake up?"

He shrugged. He had no idea. Probably because he'd been very slow, and deliberate. Haste makes waste, as they say.

Her room was completely back to normal. Everything was back to how it had been. Harry had seen to it.

"Your hair looks better red," he confided to her. "Fiery redhead, and all. It suits you."

She frowned, and then gave a weak smile.

"You're so odd," she said, yawning. She leant back towards him, stretched, fell back towards her pillow. "Thank you, Harry," she whispered.

He wondered if there were a point in replying. "For what?" he asked, with what was becoming his signature, bitter laugh. "Intruding in your safe place like some sort of psychopath? Tormenting you with pranks the past week? Being an unsympathetic—"

"For everything," she said. "For fixing it again. I get that you sometimes don't know things that I take for granted. Basic, common courtesies. Well, now you know better. And I shall be wroth if I find you have ever done this again."

And that was that.


	32. Knockturn Alley, and Other Adventures

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Knockturn Alley, and Other Adventures**

After that night, Ginny at least stopped avoiding him. They weren't instant friends, and she treated him with a certain amount of wariness that only faded as he continued to spend his nights in the room he shared with Ron. And, clearly, she hadn't told her parents, or anyone else, about his intrusion and indiscretion, because he hadn't been evicted or even lectured.

He might have allowed himself to be overcome with shame and guilt, with remorse, but Ginny didn't seem to be bearing a grudge. She spoke to him when addressed, usually about mundane, trivial things. She hadn't heard of Shakespeare, either, which made Harry set himself the reminder that he would have to let her borrow his copy of _Hamlet_ when Ron had finished.

Ron, when he returned Harry's copy, was full of enthusiasm, for once, to the idea of reading, wanting to know what else Shakespeare had written. Harry asked if there was a library nearby, and Ron, frowning in clear confusion, agreed that there was.

Harry told him that Shakespeare had written a great many more plays than just _Hamlet_, and that if a library had plays by anyone at all, it would be Shakespeare.

Ginny, meanwhile, waded through _Hamlet_ with much less enthusiasm than Ron, who wanted Harry's opinions on just about everything about the play, from the ghost of Hamlet's father, to the death of Laertes. When she had finished, she yawned, and shook her head, with an attempt at a smile.

Clearly, plays were just not Ginny's thing—at least, reading them wasn't. He wondered if she'd better understand the excitement if she'd seen it performed live. But that was never going to happen, now was it?

At least he knew what to get Ron for Ron's birthday. And Christmas. If he could find a way to a muggle bookstore. He'd have to see about sneaking out into muggle London, sometime. Perhaps when they left for Diagon Alley.

It came sooner than he had expected, that trip into London.

It started off well, with him getting lost upon his arrival in _another_ punnily-named alley (this one called "Knockturn Alley", standing more or less parallel to Diagon). He'd had the lovely opportunity to spy on the Malfoys, who were worried about some bill that Mr. Weasley had managed to have passed, something about illegal dark items. He was hiding in the antique cabinet near the fireplace through which he'd accidentally entered, watching with bated breath as Draco Malfoy perused the shelves. He didn't even question where Draco's mother might be. It was bad enough having just the two Malfoys in the store; something struck him as less…pathetic, more dangerous, about Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father. It put him in mind of what Ron had said last year, about the Malfoys being in Voldemort's inner circle.

What would they do if they found him here? This was not Diagon Alley; he could be anywhere in Britain right now. Clearly, this store traded in black market goods. Perhaps there was more of lawlessness about it even than that. The "Hand of Glory" artefact suggested that the owner did not bear any moral objections to the idea of theft. Perhaps he wouldn't object to murder, either. And there would be no point in using the invisibility cloak if Malfoy opened the cabinet, his breathing alone would give him away, the way his presence disrupted the air around him. And that was if Malfoy didn't reach into his hiding place, himself….

Harry was grateful when the Malfoys left, and the store owner, and he was out in sunshine, and then Hagrid led him back to Diagon Alley, which had never looked as welcoming.

Fred and George were jealous of his experience, which was a rather irrational reaction, but then, they hadn't seen the dank dingy nastiness that was Knockturn Alley. He had no inclination of returning there, ever.

He'd never felt quite as self-conscious about his newfound wealth as when he'd ridden the Gringotts cart with Mrs. Weasley to his vault, _after_ stopping at the Weasley's account, and had had to hastily shovel coins into his bag. How much did he have? He didn't even know _that_. He just wanted to ensure he had sufficient funds to pay for his school supplies, and a bit more, besides. He wanted to buy some rather muggle items for some of his friends, after all, and now was his only chance. If all else failed, perhaps he could appeal to McGonagall. While worthless at avoiding situations that might get her students killed, she _did_ seem to have some ability to find ways of procuring even muggle supplies to her students. She'd helped him, last year….

He still wanted to see whether or not he could find a means to London, however.

But first, of course, they had to buy school supplies. He kept a lookout anyway, to see if he might escape unnoticed, but Mrs. Weasley went off to the Apothecary to get potions supplies, and Mr. Weasley ushered them towards Flourish and Blotts. Between the two of them, they managed to (accidentally) keep him well in sight.

Flourish and Blotts managed to be even more of a disaster than his first ever journey via floo powder. He decided, then and there, that he loathed Gilderoy Lockhart. Not only was the man an idiot, but it seemed that, this year at least, Harry would be a constant target for his stupidity. What with how he was the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and all.

Harry was used to sitting quietly in a corner, making no noise, and pretending that he didn't exist. If he hadn't had that brief period of grace between his stay at the Dursleys, and coming to Diagon Alley, he might have snapped—like a wild animal—and gone after whomever was threatening him.

Fortunately for Lockhart, Harry'd spent the last two weeks in a period of more or less calm. This meant that when Lockhart called the attention of the photographer for the _Daily Prophet_ ("Together, you and I are worth the front page"), announcing that he'd been chosen to fill the vacancy in the Hogwarts staff (Harry fervently hoped that there _were_ a curse on the position), and given Harry a stack of autographed copies of all his books (which were also, naturally, the required texts for his course) free of charge, Harry settled for glaring at him, and storming into the store.

He knew that the fact that they were autographed served also as a sort of proof of purchase, which meant that he could shove them off on someone else. He owed Ginny, so he shoved the complete signed works of Lockhart into her cauldron, ignoring her wide-eyed protests.

"Yes, well, I owe you," he snapped, and she started, and then frowned. She was carrying the course books with casual ease in a second-hand cauldron, as her father hurried about, gathering second-hand textbooks from what seemed to be sheer memory—having done it this many times before.

"But—but Harry, I _can't_—" Ginny protested, and Harry glowered at her. He was not in the mood for this at all.

"Really. Well, if you don't want those books, then I am going to _burn_ them, the first chance that I get. I'd rather buy a set of his books, even if it mean he profits from them, then make do with books that I _know_ he has touched. Take them, or I can burn them, later. Personally, since you'll have to suffer him, I think you should take me up on my offer. It seems a bit of a waste otherwise, don't you think?"

Before she could make her response, he stormed off, shoving books into a carrying hamper without paying them that much attention. He didn't need that many textbooks this time, thankfully—

What was that ruckus? He hurried over to where the commotion was coming from, leaning over the balcony of the store to see a familiar red-headed man standing near Ginny with her cauldron of used books. Nearby stood a haughty, younger man, with long, silvery-blonde hair, his head tilted back so that he could look down his nose at Mr. Weasley. In his hands, he clutched a faded copy of what Harry recognised as a first year Transfiguration textbook. It was old, and obviously worn, with the corners of the binding fraying and torn.

He knew that the Malfoys thought too highly of themselves to ever consider buying second-hand goods, which meant that this was actually Ginny's book, and he'd taken it from her cauldron, as if to flaunt how little respect he had for the Weasleys, for their personal possessions, for their illusions of protection, of privacy, of property.

He considered the merits of sliding through the railing, to come to her defence. He doubted that the drop would hurt him very much. Hermione had recovered from a fall of only slightly lesser height. He felt he perhaps owed it to Ginny, to defend her. His fists clenched, as he considered what he ought to do.

"I think you and I have different opinions about what is considered a disgrace to the name of wizard," Arthur Weasley said.

Ginny looked around, frantical, and caught sight of Harry. Her gaze locked upon him. He almost felt the accusation in it, although, this time, he'd done nothing wrong. His fists clenched even more tightly. He made for the stairs, instead. Now was a bad time to call attention to himself.

"Famous Harry Potter. Can't even go to a _bookstore_ without getting mobbed. I bet you loved _that_, didn't you?"

Of course. Where the scum of the earth was, his spawn wouldn't be far behind.

"I suggest you move, Malfoy," Harry said, with deadly quiet. Malfoy scoffed. Harry stood utterly still. He was two jibes away from casting a spell that he knew he'd regret later. Maybe _incendio_, or _confringo_, or something equally fun and dangerous.

"Move," he said again, his voice flat, and Malfoy gave a nervous little laugh. If Harry had been possessed of hackles, they would have risen at this response. He shoved Malfoy forcefully to the side, and made his way to the area of conflict just as it came to blows.

Then Hagrid was there, and Mrs. Weasley, and a woman with hair longer and more silvery than Lucius Malfoy's, who deigned Arthur Weasley a look of great condescension, before gently pulling her husband to his feet.

"Take your textbook, then," hissed Lucius Malfoy, who had somehow clung to the thing, despite all that. "It's the best your father can give you—"

"No, Arthur!" Molly Weasley cried, as Arthur strained against her hold, lunging forwards suddenly. Lucius Malfoy's eyes glinted in triumph.

"Come along, Draco. Perhaps we can find a store with more…discernment in its choice of clientele."

Draco Malfoy smirked at the lot of them, and flounced off.

"Are you alright, Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked.

"I can't believe you! How old are you, five? Fighting like a muggle—brawling, of all things, in a crowded bookstore! What would Lockhart say?" she asked, in despair.

"He's _thrilled_," said Fred, appearing out of nowhere. "I overheard him telling that cameraman, asking if he could work it into his story, somehow. Just be glad Skeeter wasn't here, Mum."

Ginny looked at Harry, and Harry looked at Ginny.

"Very sorry it took me so long to arrive," Harry said. A quick glance around revealed that Fred had vanished again, and none of the other Weasleys—except for Mrs. and Mr. Weasley (and Ginny) were to be seen. Where did they all go? Well, this _was_ a rather large store.

"I have all of my books," Harry said. "I'll just pay for them, and go out for some fresh air. Do you mind if Ginny comes, too? I think recent events might have…shaken her up a bit."

Ginny glared at him from beneath her bangs, which Harry still considered progress to how she was before, when he'd first arrived at The Burrow.

"What? No, we can pay for her books, you're right. Thank you, Harry, she does look a bit…."

Harry brought his books up to the checkout, and returned a few minutes later to where Ginny stood, with arms folded, and eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I think I owe you a bit. I've been thinking that I could buy you something."

"You can't _buy_ my friendship, Harry Potter," Ginny said, eyes narrowing still further. "And I don't do charity."

"Then think of it as a fun adventure, Ginny. There's something I've been wondering about."

He hefted the books in the enchanted satchel the witch had given him at checkout. Its feather-light charm was probably the only reason the satchel hadn't burst open with all the heavy books inside. It might be the only reason normal wizards could do all of their shopping in one trip.

Since he'd gone behind her back and asked her parents for permission, Ginny seemed to think that she had no choice but to follow Harry back out into Diagon Alley, scowling deeply.

"Where are we going?" she snapped.

Harry pointed, and Ginny's eyes widened. She forgot to be cross with him when she spoke next, revealing the latent shyness underlying her show of anger. "Harry, you _can't_," she said.

"People keep telling me that," he said, as he walked down the street, turning back to make sure she was following.

"But Harry, wands are _expensive_," she protested. "I know my parents were planning to—"

"Give you a hand-me-down?" Harry completed. "Yes, I know. Ron has Charlie's old wand, and if you Weasleys weren't all so proud, I'd buy _him_ a new wand, too. You don't want to go into a magical education with the setback of using a wand that hasn't chosen you. I suspect that's half of Neville's trouble. Or at least, I keep telling him it is."

He was quite pleased with himself for that fact, and he had the sense that Ginny would know better than to share it. Even if she did, who would believe her?

"At any rate, if you're that bothered by it, I might say that there is an entirely selfish reason for this: I want to know what it looks like when someone _else_ finds whichever wand they were destined to wield. And to hear whatever Ollivander has to tell you."

"That's not payment!" Ginny said, her voice shrill, and probably at least two octaves higher than it usually was. He winced. He had slightly sensitive hearing, owing to the Dursleys. And possibly other things, who knew? He just smiled, and turned to face her, pulling open the door with a bow.

"After you," he said. She huffed, and stormed inside. Harry followed soon thereafter.

"Ah. Harry Potter. Did something happen to your old wand?" asked a familiar voice from the gloom. Ollivander appeared, ghosting out of the shadows. Ginny jumped.

In response, Harry pulled the phoenix feather wand from his pocket, and brandished it in a flurry of red sparks. He frowned at them. He wasn't _Thor_.

"Ah, yes. Holly and phoenix feather. Twelve inches. I hope it has been serving you well." Harry nodded, and exhaled sharply as Ollivander redirected his attention to Ginny.

"And who is this? A Weasley, hmm? The youngest, the girl."

"Ginny Weasley, sir," said Ginny, back to being meek and mild. She squirmed in her discomfiture under his gaze. Then the tape measure appeared, and began measuring everything about her. Measuring her magic, measuring her aptitudes, he could see it now. Perhaps some of those measurements ended up being irrelevant, but they would help Ollivander to pick out materials, to sort through wands.

"And which is your wand hand?" he asked, as the measure took the length of her left forearm.

"Er—right!" she cried. He only raised his eyebrows at the odd pause in the answer to what seemed an ordinary question. He bustled off to the shelves, occasionally glancing back at the tape measure. Probably, it was mentally transmitting whatever measurements it found, somehow. Either that, or he knew _just_ when to glance up, to see what was being measured, and what the results.

"Here. Try this one. Hazel and dragon heartstring. Eleven inches. Give it a try—"

But, as with Harry, he snatched it out of her hands before she could do anything, reaching into another box to pull out another wand. "No, no, that won't do at all."

He glanced at the tape measure. "How about this one? Unicorn hair and yew, a rather odd combination. Ten inches—"

The front window exploded, and Harry smiled, despite having to duck flying glass. Ginny's hands rose to her mouth in undisguised horror. She didn't react when Ollivander tried to hand her the next wand, but he _was_ able to gently prise open her hands to remove the previous one.

Harry turned to the window, considered.

"_Reparo_," he decided. The window obligingly knitted itself back together, and Ginny thawed.

"Ah, yes, yes, I think that's part of the problem," Ollivander mused to himself. "How about this one? Hazel and phoenix feather, fourteen inches?"

He apparently felt that that one wasn't worth giving a shot, taking it from her as she raised her hand. She began to look sullen.

"Yes, yes. A bit much, perhaps," Ollivander said, as Harry watched him intently. "Hmm. An odd balance we need to strike here. Hmm. How about this one? Yew and phoenix feather, ten inches. I don't expect—"

Ginny frowned down at the wand, which refused to do anything.

Ollivander considered, and then wandered farther afield. Harry took the opportunity, after glancing at Ginny, to follow him.

"I'm paying for the wand," he said, deciding that time was of the essence, and that there was no sense beating around the bush. "Don't tell Ginny how much it costs."

He shoved ten galleons at Ollivander, whose eyebrows rose even as the rest of his face stayed blank. "If it costs more that ten galleons, for the wand and for your silence, let me know that. But _don't_ tell her. The Weasleys are ridiculous about all of this."

There was something to be said for watching this process. Harry was no longer seething, or itching to strangle Draco Malfoy. He wondered if it were this entertaining to watch _everyone_ find their best-suited wand.

* * *

Half an hour or so later, Ginny had finally found it. The total price of wand and Ollivander's silence came to twelve galleons. He wondered how much each cost, but resigned himself to never knowing. Ginny seemed in a much better mood, and was politer to him now that she had a wand of her own. She beamed, looking as if she wanted to try out every spell she'd ever heard used before. He hoped she'd didn't remember _servo stellas_.

They wandered about the Alley for a while, and stopped at Florean Fortescue's Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlour. She seemed to think that it was asking too much of Harry to get anything but a vanilla cone. Harry didn't push his luck. He remembered last year's disastrous trip to the zoo, and ordered one with chocolate chips and peanuts. It was pretty good. He maintained that Ginny was being utterly boring, but she laughed and rolled her eyes.

After that, he decided it was time to try and find his way into London proper. To her credit, when he told her of his plan, Ginny just pressed her lips tightly together, and nodded. They asked a few patrons of the Leaky Cauldron if they knew of any muggle bookstores, and then passed out into London. To Harry's lasting surprise, Ginny knew better than to step out into the middle of traffic, obeyed traffic signals without problem, and could follow directions.

They found the bookstore, and Harry left with a few gifts for his friends, a list of other locations, and a mail order form or two.

They returned to Diagon Alley, and returned to wandering around. Mrs. Weasley found them a few minutes later. She looked rather alarmed, but in altogether good spirits.

Harry briefly contemplated just how long it was liable to have taken for her to find all of the books for _everyone_ attending Hogwarts. There were the new course books for Fred, George, Percy, and Ron, as well as all of the first year textbooks for Ginny. It was probably a lot to keep track of. Harry'd been lucky, that way. Although…there were a lot of other shops she probably also had had to stop at. Madam Malkin's, for one, and whatever shop sold supplies for pets. Harry should probably go there, himself.

Mrs. Weasley seemed altogether in a better mood after she'd calmed down from Arthur Weasley's fight. She smiled when she saw how much happier Ginny was, and nodded her thanks and silent approval to Harry.

She probably would feel a bit differently when she learnt that he'd gone behind her back, but for now, Harry basked in the temporary reprieve. He knew that good things don't last.


	33. The Sealed Barrier

**Chapter Thirty-Three: The Sealed Barrier**

Over the next few days, Harry seemed to feel obligated to go back over the events in Diagon Alley, and try to figure out where Ron was, and why he hadn't been there to stop Harry from doing something inordinately stupid concerning Malfoy.

The answer was both surprising and somewhat gratifying: Ron was off doing his own thing, because he trusted Harry enough not to screw things up. He'd decided to give Harry his personal space, as Harry had asked all along.

Ron had been there, when they'd first arrived at Flourish and Blotts, to prevent Harry from attacking Lockhart, and somehow, perhaps by the mere expression on Harry's face, he'd known to give him space and time alone. The oddest thing was that, instead of scouring the bookshelves the whole time, he'd gone off with Ginny to get her her wand. But Ron hadn't known to fret about that until it was too late, anyhow.

It wasn't as if Ron had _ignored_ him during his stay with the Weasleys, but he'd let him do his own thing, and Harry was grateful. He'd half-expected that his entire stay would be Ron hovering over his shoulder, asking him if he were planning on doing anything stupid (a highly hypocritical question), but Mrs. Weasley seemed to have taken that mantle upon herself, and Ron knew it. It would have still been better than Privet Drive—anything was—but this was far more pleasant than he'd anticipated. He would _miss_ The Burrow, a fact that he'd only been able to say about two other places. So there.

With this knowledge in mind, Harry set to reading this next year's textbooks, except for Lockhart's. He would read those later; he highly doubted it mattered, one way or the other, but it would be nice if he could find some inconsistencies in Lockhart's work.

As an unspoken agreement, he still set aside time to spend with the Weasleys, while he could. Percy was still Percy, and therefore to be avoided, but he and Ginny had common cause in a lack of regard for Lockhart, which was good. He had half-feared she'd take after her mum and _fancy_ him. As the Twins had put it.

Time passed quite quickly now that they were approaching a deadline, and soon it was time to go to King's Cross to catch the train to Hogwarts, and finally reunite with Hermione. He'd written a letter to her explaining about Dobby's visit, and why he hadn't replied to her letter, but had, thus far, received no reply. He had to hope that nothing had happened to her, and cursed Dobby yet again for his friends' supposed silence.

But September First came soon enough, and, after conferring for half the night with his mother, particularly concerning the subject of Lockhart, he was as ready for the new year as he was going to be. And indeed, everything went just fine, until his trolley crashed into the suddenly solid brick wall barring access to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

He took stock. He was all alone, with the Weasleys trapped with everyone else on the other side of the barrier. Not that they'd have cause to notice he was missing until it was too late; thanks to the truly hectic arrangements of the Weasleys, they were already late, on the verge of missing the train.

He glared at the barrier, as if to intimidate it into submission. Astoundingly, it did not yield.

But he was not defeated _that_ easily. He opened the familiar seventh sense to analyse what he could of how the spell on the barrier was supposed to function—was there an actual brick wall there that a spell allowed travel through, or was it the illusion of a wall covering up a hole, or portal? And then, of course, it was also necessary to determine how the barrier had been closed.

But he had to hurry—the train would leave soon, and he wasn't deluded enough to think that he was so important that they'd notice if he wasn't on it. Or that they'd delay the journey even if they _did_ notice.

People did tend not to notice him, when he didn't deliberately call attention to himself. He had mastered _that_.

And even as he analysed the makeup of that spell, he was trying to plan what to do next, what to do if he finally _did_ make it through the barricade, and trying to set aside the question of who would do this to begin with.

The spell was (and this was fairly reasonable, all things considered) one that enabled passage through the brick wall—or perhaps, not through it, but into a compressed pocket dimension. Or what seemed a bit similar. Who knew what Diagon Alley was, but Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was of a kind with it: a fold in space, compressed space, a pocket dimension conjoining two worlds—who knew?

It was forgotten space, and not a pocket dimension—the barrier allowed passage through the wall, not into another (albeit minuscule) dimension. That was it. Then, all he needed to do was to bore through the wall, or re-establish a similar spell to allow himself passage. And then what?

He'd decide that on the other side of the wall. Whoever had closed the barrier had not accounted for whom they were trying to block (and it could only be he; all the others had made it through fine, someone had watched and waited for _him_ particularly). He knew that he could cut through. And that was probably the operative word: cut.

He thought of swords, thought of lasers, thought of spells that shot beams of light. He only needed enough space for himself, and if he had to cut through a brick wall, and that was difficult to repair, well, it was on the head of whomever had tried to shut him out.

He glanced around the station, but all about, people were bustling, and paying him little heed. Hedwig was keeping sensibly silent, watching him with patient eyes. He drew the wand from the holder he'd bought at Diagon Alley, and paused again, to think. There was no other way around it; he didn't know any wizarding spells precise enough to cut through a brick wall. At the same time, the wand was the only way he could think of to focus magic into a concentrated beam. He'd have to use the _other_ sort of magic, as he usually thought of it.

Let's just hope this worked. He walked up to the wall, and thought hard. Focus. Energy. Desire. No ambient energy to draw on; he'd have to use his own reserves. He bent down to trace a rectangular arch into the wall, starting at the floor, and heading up. Unlike in movies, the wall didn't collapse once he'd created his rectangle-arch. But he _had_ bored through the wall; he was sure of it. The gap he'd made was as thin as a hair—super-concentrated, because he'd known that he could do that with the added precision afforded by the wand.

He'd omitted the base of his arch, of course. He finished his rectangle, and glanced around. Still no one watching. He turned sideways, and shuffled crabwise to the makeshift doorway. He pushed gently on the right hand side, and it spun like a sluggish revolving door. He pushed at the wall from the other side, until it flipped back to its original position, but did nothing more to fix the wall. And only then did he turn back to the station.

People were still waving and crying and sending off their children. No one had noticed him. It wasn't time for them to leave through the barrier yet—it might have opened when the first person had come through, but by then, the Hogwarts Express would have been out of sight, and right now, he could see the last of the cars rolling into the distance. Too far for something stupid like jumping. But….

He opened Hedwig's cage, and his expression probably said more to her than his words. Or maybe not. Hedwig was a very smart owl.

"Can you keep up with the train, do you suppose? If you can, catch up to me. If you can't…go to Hogwarts, and I'll meet you there."

She hooted, nipped his finger, and flew off, and Harry shrank the cage to a more manageable size, and then set the trunk down on the ground, opening it to remove the broomstick Professor McGonagall had bought him last year. He knew he was a good flier. He knew that he could catch up to the train. Youngest Seeker in a century, and all. And he knew that the train had windows, and Ron and Hermione were sure to be wondering where he was. Or, at least, he _hoped_—

He killed off that line of thought before it could become too dangerous, closing the trunk, securing it, and grabbing onto it with one hand, he forced the loop of Hedwig's birdcage over the handle of the broom, before him, sliding it down until it wouldn't affect steering too much. If all else failed, he had little use of the birdcage during the school year, and he might be able to convince someone that it was a necessity at the Dursleys in time to replace it.

He kicked off, and flew, at the best speed the Nimbus Two Thousand could muster, after the train.

This was not his sort of thing. It was Thor's. He did _not_ like the stakes attached to his success at this juncture, or how likely it was that either McGonagall would expel him, or he'd be crushed by the train, or spotted, or something. But he kept on his course, occasionally dipping down to look into cars as he passed them. The red hair of the Weasley clan couldn't be _that_ easy to miss.

And despite it all, he couldn't deny that he still felt safer, here in the sky, than he had at any point at the Dursleys. It felt _right_, inexplicably.

He paused as he began to pass another window. Red hair. Someone else with brown hair. Hmm. Could be.

He knocked against the window of the compartment, and the two of them started, and then Hermione's gaze shot to the window, and Ron's followed hers. He strode over to the window, and flung it open with some force.

"_Harry_!" he cried. His expression was full of disapproval. His arms were folded. He looked the part of the lecturing parent, and Harry rolled his eyes, despite himself.

"Not _my_ first choice," he said, lightly, gripping onto the window. "I think we have a bit of a reversal of roles, here. You should have told me how risky this was."

He grabbed hold of the window with the hand he had been using to steer, well aware that as the train picked up speed, the force of its momentum would probably be…a bit problematic for him. Maybe.

Just how durable were the bodies of wizards, anyway? Hagrid had thought it absurd that a "mere" car crash could kill James Potter….

He handed through Hedwig's shrunken cage, which Ron took with a sigh, and a reproachful frown. Harry barely kept control of the broom. Nimbus Two Thousands were not meant to be steered without _any_ hands, but, being designed for quidditch players, and quidditch being the sport it was, it didn't immediately go off course, either.

Harry wasted no time in grabbing hold of the ledge of the window, again, this time carefully angling the broom so that it pointed through the window, and he was able to slide off, through the window, and brace it so that it didn't immediately fall out and be lost. Privately, he felt that this was a much more impressive feat than merely catching a remembrall after a hundred foot dive, or whatever.

Hermione's hands were at her mouth, her eyes very wide. She looked either horrified or terrified.

Ron was still about to nag him for recklessness. Harry sighed, and huffed, and made sure that the broom handle was well and truly wedged, at an angle so that his trunk couldn't just decide to slide off.

"Oh, lay off, Ron. I told you this was _not my first choice_. It wasn't even my second or third choice, either. But I missed the train—through no fault of my own, I might add—and I had to catch up _somehow_. Someone closed the barrier on me. If this is Dobby trying to keep me from Hogwarts again—"

He paused. It could very well be Dobby, come to that, House-elf magic was different from wizarding magic, but could evidently be made to mimic it, or he wouldn't have received his notice from the Improper Use of Magic Office.

"First Quirrell, now a house-elf!" he cried, throwing up his hands in frustration. "Am I allowed no _rest_?"

Ron was considering fretting over him now. His brows were starting to knit together, and his arms had shifted slightly.

"Oh, Harry, that was so dangerous!" Hermione squealed. "You could have been—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Harry said, waving a hand to bat aside her concerns. "There are a hundred ways I could have just died, but it's only slightly more dangerous than quidditch—"

"Have I not said before that you should not make light of your own demise—?" Ron interjected. Harry ignored him to talk over him.

"—and I didn't have much choice. You know that there were Death Eaters on the platform. Suppose I'd been kidnapped, or killed? I don't know enough spells to properly defend myself, now do I? Now, you could say 'but there were all those _non_-Death Eaters. They wouldn't have dared to try anything!'—" Hermione shut her mouth with a snap, showing that that was, in fact, what she'd been on the verge of saying.

"Well, probably not at that point then, but they certainly would have had plenty of time if I'd done something stupid like, say, sent Hedwig off to Hogwarts and waited behind on the platform, or, perhaps worse, London. It takes six hours for the train to reach Hogwarts, right? Do you think Hedwig is faster? I'd have had no way to send for any sort of help at all, then. And I didn't see your parents on the platform, Ron; perhaps they were searching for me; perhaps in their distraction, they assumed that I'd boarded when they weren't looking—I don't know. And do you really think I can identify…_most_ of You-Know-Who's men on sight? There were risks involved, no matter _what_ I did. At least I'm _good_ at flying, and I could control _that_."

Hermione blinked, gaping at him. She'd rarely heard him give such long rants before. In fact, the last one he'd given had probably been the one where he'd explained his reasons for going after the Stone before Quirrell could get it.

"What would you have done?" he asked, glancing at the Nimbus Two Thousand again, just to make sure it hadn't moved. Hermione wilted.

"I—I suppose I would have sent Hedwig to Professor McGonagall," she said, voice very small. Harry rounded on Ron. Ron's mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

"Probably something not half as thought out or clever as what you did. Which is not to say that what you did was clever or well thought out."

That seemed to be exactly what he was saying.

"You're not my _mother_, Ron," Harry reminded him. "You don't have to disapprove just because what I did could have been dangerous."

"It _was_ very impressive," Ron admitted, clearly torn. Hermione glared at him.

"Don't encourage him, Ron," she hissed. Then she sighed, sagging. "Well, I suppose all's well that ends well. But I don't know how you're going to get your trunk inside…."

Harry shrugged. "I assume that they'll be able to get it when we arrive at the station. I just have to make sure it doesn't fall off. It's hanging over the back of the broom."

Hermione, as if incredulous, went over to the window to peer out to see that the trunk had slid down towards the window. If broomsticks weren't made to be insanely durable, given the nature of quidditch matches, she would have been astonished that it hadn't already broken.

"That will never do," she said, rolling up her sleeves and peering out the window. "Harry, can you grab onto the handle? And Ron, grab onto the broom so that it isn't lost. I'm going to try something."

Harry took a glance at her set expression, and sighed, climbing half out the window to grab hold of his trunk. He hefted it up, and Ron pulled the Nimbus Two Thousand out from its position stuck through the window. Harry decided that, if all else failed, he could just keep one hand clamped over the handle for the rest of the trip. Except when he had to change into his Hogwarts robes. How was he going to do that?

"_Mundum aperio_!" Hermione cried, pointing out the window.

Harry considered asking her what she had just done, and then decided that, based on the Latin alone, he didn't want to know. Besides, he was too busy concentrating on keeping his hand attached to his arm. Some force seemed to be trying to separate them.

"You should be able to pull it through the wall, now," Hermione said happily, seeming unaware of the excruciating pain in his hand. It was only temporary, as he reminded himself. Nothing like that torture curse Quirrell had used, or—

To his surprise, he was able to pull the trunk _through_ the wall of the train, without damaging it. His hand ceased from its complaints when safely in the train.

"I was studying about the way that the barrier at Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was created," Hermione gushed. "Apparently, it distorts space by—"

"Thank you, Hermione. Although I think I may have dislocated my wrist. What did that spell do? Create some sort of intra-universal portal? A pocket dimension? It felt as if my hand were being cut off, so—"

Hermione hung her head. Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. I'm not saying that it wasn't a brilliant piece of magic, and that you didn't do extremely well. I'm just questioning the safety of—"

Hedwig flew in at just that moment, with a reproachful hoot, and Harry turned to Ron, who picked up the cage and held it out to Harry. Hedwig flew in, with great dignity, and Harry closed the door to her cage, and set to trying to station his trunk in the overhead rack as he had the year previous.

"Very well done, Hermione," he said. "Thank you. I suppose that it's just as well that I don't know how that spell works."

"If you'd have let me finish, I was _going_ to say that it's an attempted modification of the spell that allows passage through Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. I was reading about its history in the library, and then I bought a few books on the subject of advanced transfiguration, and polystate matter, and it seemed—"

"You're telling me that that was just an experiment?" Harry demanded, shaking his head. He reminded himself that he hardly had room to talk. Life at the Dursleys had been full of just that—experimental magic—the last two years. But even still….

"No!" Hermione hastily interjected. "It's a quasi-prototypal version of the spell—the real thing isn't recorded anywhere in case someone sabotaged it—"

"Some good that did—" Harry muttered.

"—but some of the earlier versions of the spell that it improved upon _were_."

"And did it say why they weren't used any longer?" Harry grumbled.

Hermione hesitated, and he sighed, shaking his head, but resigned himself to the situation. He didn't seem to have been permanently harmed; his wrist was already starting to recover, and he no longer had to worry about losing any of his possessions whether by destruction, or by their just falling out. "Well, all's well that ends well," he said, shrugging, and Hermione smiled at the words come back to her.

Harry put away the trunk, and they began catching up on their summers. For instance, Hermione hadn't responded to Harry's letters because she'd been traveling with her parents. They planned to make the most of the time that Hermione spent at home by trying new things, and exploring new places with her. They'd brainstormed all the places she'd always wanted to see, and then saw what of those were feasible for this summer's vacation. It worked out well enough. They were considering going to France next summer. Hermione seemed thrilled at the prospect.

In exchange for stories about her adventures in London (mostly), and Cornwall (huh?), Harry told her about his rather miserable last week at the Dursleys, including the worst birthday of his life thus far (but knowing the Dursleys, his thirteenth birthday would find a way to be even _worse_). Her hands again flew to cover her mouth, eyes brimming with tears, as he finished telling her about Dobby's mysterious warnings, and moved on to his punishment of starvation-cum-isolation, locked up in the smallest bedroom, with bars on his windows.

"Surely, they couldn't have—I mean, where would they have even _found_ bars—?" Hermione favoured outright incredulity of what he was saying, but Ron sighed, looking down, seeming pensive.

"This is no mere exaggeration—I saw it myself," he said, voice level and balanced in the manner of a sword. Ouch.

Hermione blinked and turned back to Harry, looking mighty subdued.

"But I spent the rest of the summer with the Weasleys, so it's alright," Harry said, skipping over the worst of it. What was the point? Ron glanced his way, as if questioning why he'd possibly leave something like that out, but he only glanced in Ron's direction to ensure his silence, and went on to tell of meeting Lockhart in Diagon Alley, and what Malfoy had been doing in Borgin & Burke's.

Malfoy appeared just then, as if summoned by the mention, and Harry leapt to his feet, far too harassed and on edge to put up with Malfoy's nonsense.

"Where's your girlfriend, Potty? Did she abandon you? Of course, being a little blood traitor as she is, I wouldn't be surprised if she—"

"I suggest you leave _now_, Malfoy," Harry snapped.

"What's the matter? Did I hit a nerve?"

"If you are speaking of my sister, then the answer is most likely _yes_. And you might not be glad of that," Ron said. He seemed eager to vent some of his recent ill humour on Malfoy, who paled, perhaps remembering the incident in the Forbidden Forest last year. He had a new wand, of course, but even a Malfoy couldn't just go through wands as if they were candy. His eyes narrowed, however (he must not look weak), and he attempted to stare Ron down. Ron being Ron, the attempt failed.

Of course, Crabbe and Goyle were also there. For once, even Harry might welcome a fight. There was too much on his mind, and he was always thinking, always planning, always trying to think through all of his problems. If it were possible to sprain your brain, he was sure he would have managed it by now. Gryffindor had a point: sometimes, it was best to just _take action_.

Not that he would ever tell Thor that. If he ever encountered him.

Hermione sank down into the bench behind him, head in her hands. Harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"This is your last chance," said Ron. "I suggest you take it."

Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles together in response, and Malfoy scoffed.

"_Incendio_," Harry said, pointing at Malfoy, whose eyes widened, before casting a quick shield charm, eyes narrowing.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," Hermione said, somehow managing to sound haughty and reproachful.

Malfoy fell to the ground, arms and legs seemingly pinned to his sides. Harry sighed, but decided to limit himself to acceptable jinxes. Crabbe and Goyle had never been set on fire anyway, that he knew of. That took the vindictive pleasure out of it.

Ron rammed whichever of them had the bowl cut hair, Ron's shoulder crashing into the boy's bulk, and driving him back into the corridor. Harry took a leaf out of Hermione's book, and used the Full-Body Bind, which earned him a sharp nod of approval. Then, they set to rolling the three out into the corridor. For good measure, they rolled them down the hall. Harry occasionally abandoned his rolling job to open the occasional compartment, looking for one that looked as if it might have been the one that Malfoy had come from. But at last, he just gave up, and the two of them returned back to their own compartment, where Hermione waited with folded arms.

She was spending too much time with Ron.

"You didn't even give him a chance to—"

"Hermione, you know as well as I what he would have said. I'm still rather _angry_ with him over what he said when we crossed paths at Flourish and Blotts. So, no, he hasn't miraculously become a decent person over the summer, Hermione."

"But…! _Ron_—!"

"Family feud," Harry interrupted, before she could get any further. Hermione scowled, but took the hint.


	34. A Period of Rest

**Chapter Thirty-Four: A Period of Rest**

When they arrived at Hogwarts, and had disembarked from the train, almost the very first thing that happened was that Snape, of all people, cornered and collared him, claiming that he had been spotted by at the least some of his fellow students, who had reported him riding a broom onto the train. That was thoroughly unfair. Harry crossed his arms, and tried to think of a better response than "prove it".

"Might I ask who it was that made this claim?" he asked mildly. "Malfoy and I _do_ have a bit of a rivalry, and I would not put it past him—"

"My sources were quite certain as to what they saw," Snape's eyes glittered with malice as he spoke. "Detention, I think, and perhaps you should—"

"Severus, what is the meaning of this?" McGonagall interrupted, on her way to the door to give her usual introductory speech to the new students.

"Detention, Potter," said Snape in a low voice. "And be glad it isn't worse. You could have been seen, and that is _illegal_."

And he swept off without further explanation.

McGonagall, of course, managed to have missed it. Harry didn't care. He'd got detention before even the first day for merely refusing to be left behind. That probably counted as a portent as to how the rest of the year would pass. He kicked at the floor, twice, to vent some of his frustration in a less-than-obvious way, and then strode off to join a frowning Ron at the Gryffindor table.

They waited while the students finished crossing the lake, and filed into the hall, and McGonagall gave her lecture. The resident ghosts of Hogwarts swept into the hall, taking their various stations at their preferred tables around the room. Harry knew that there were more ghosts than those present now; not all of them came to the first feast, and some of them kept to themselves so much that they were more rumour than presence. Last year, he'd been too preoccupied to notice their presence at his own sorting (fancy missing something like that!). The House ghost, Sir Nick, was practically bouncing with excitement. It made his head wobble on his mostly severed neck, which in turn meant that most of Gryffindor House studiously avoided looking at him. He'd been helpful enough to them last year, but it didn't make it any less disconcerting….

Harry listened with less enthusiasm to the Hat's new song than he had the year previous. As always, there was just too much to think on. House-elves, closed barriers, detention….

The sorting.

The first new Gryffindor was a small, excitable boy named Colin Creevey. In the months to come, Harry would come to resent the constant hero worship and adulation that oozed incessantly from the younger boy, but their acquaintance started amicably enough. He introduced himself, and said something about cameras, and then shut up when Percy leveled a reproachful stare at him.

There were few other recognisable names for Harry to listen for, which meant that his mind naturally gravitated towards analysing more important matters. But it snapped back to the moment, when "Weasley, Ginevra" was called. _Ginevra_? _That_ was Ginny's full name?

The Hat hesitated for a few seconds, as it had with Ron (who seemed to be holding his breath), before crying "Gryffindor!".

A rather rattled-looking Ginny stumbled over to a seat next to Ron, with a quick, tired smile around the table. Then, Dumbledore stood, to give the usual speech, which detoured into an introduction for the most flamboyant Hogwarts professor yet. Dressed in his robes of forget-me-not blue, with his hat set at a jaunty angle, and a winning smile on his lips…. Harry grabbed hold of a butter knife, and pretended that it was acceptable in polite society to murder someone as infuriating as Lockhart. He wondered how he'd get through this year.

That was _before_ the "Harry Potter fan club" incident, the next day, back when the world seemed more or less reasonable, and was continuing as it had.

Oh, and he had a detention to consider. To make matter worse, Lockhart had somehow managed to shift the detention to be with him, instead of with Snape. Judging by Snape's triumphant smirk, he realised that Harry would prefer a detention with him to one with Lockhart.

And Colin Creevey had requested a signed photograph with Harry, which Harry might have been willing to give him, had he been able to set the terms, but no, Lockhart had intervened, and given him a "two-for-one" deal. And then Malfoy had come by….

Harry found himself in a bad humour more swiftly than the previous year. This year seemed determined to be a series of setbacks, starting even before the year began, with Dobby's warning, continuing through the closed barrier and his ensuing detention, and now there was a whole year of Creevey and Lockhart to look forward to.

Thankfully, Hagrid, Ron, and Ginny were all quite as dismissive of Lockhart as Harry was. His first visit with Hagrid was preceded with Hagrid practically driving the man off, as he called out offers to help Hagrid do his duties as gamekeeper more effectively.

"Right fraud, he is," Hagrid said, summing it up quite succinctly. Hermione pouted, insisting that he was a great man whom they didn't understand. In her eyes, anyone who had written so many books must be amazing. Or, as Ron had pointed out when they pulled out their schedules the first day, "Why have you put hearts next to Lockhart's classes?"

Her blush had served as sufficient answer to that question, as well as the question of how Hermione (usually the brightest witch at school) could be taken in, especially after Lockhart's disastrous first lesson, which had amounted to all of them getting a lot of hands-on experience in doing Lockhart's job better than Lockhart could.

Ron was particularly effective at stunning the Cornish pixies, which Hermione gently picked up with a casual _wingardium leviosa_, floating them carefully back into their cages. Harry set himself the task of retrieving Neville from the chandelier without anyone being hurt. He'd finally figured out that he was alright with heights as long as he could see the ground. This meant that he didn't mind climbing, although there were few handholds.

It was the sort of thing that made you wish for wings. He at last gave it up for a lost cause, and cast a cushioning charm instead, accompanied by a reductor at the chain of the chandelier. Lockhart could repair it—if he actually had that limited degree of competence. Neville was unharmed, and joined the fray as best he could, despite Harry's subtle hints that he should keep out of it.

September 1992 was not the best month of Harry's life. He could hardly wait for the last day of the month, when he could ask his mother for some advice. As it was, his mind churned through an increasing number of problems. He was fine with his schoolwork. He was probably even doing well enough in Potions, although its professor made telling this very difficult. But the rest of it… wondering what Dobby would do next, if indeed he had closed the barrier (if he could affect the barrier, without even being seen, how much more havoc might he wreak at Hogwarts?); wondering what to do about his burgeoning "fan club", founded, naturally, by Creevey and Lockhart; and then what happened in his detention with Lockhart….

That was certainly unnerving. Detention itself was bad enough… filling out addresses for Lockhart's fan-mail, as the man himself prattled on about self-glorifying exaggerated tales of his own exploits… but then, the mysterious voice, the one that Lockhart evidently couldn't hear, speaking of murder and bloodshed and monstrous hunger….

Harry tended to lose his cool whenever sociopaths appeared, or inexplicable voices haunted him, or murder and violence came up in conversation. The confluence of all three was…not good.

Lockhart dismissed him, and he wandered off in a daze, half of a mind to find the origin of the voice, to discover whence any of this was coming, if it weren't indeed from his own head. It was far past midnight, at that point, but he was used to enduring long nights of suffering, starvation at the Dursleys, torture…elsewhere, and before even _that_….

He wandered the halls of Hogwarts, listening for that disembodied voice, but it faded away, leaving him edgy and jumpy and rather short-tempered. He did not sleep well that night, fearing a resumption of last year's nightmares.

He was already in a bad humour, therefore, tired and wary as he was, when Wood woke everyone early the next morning to go out and practice quidditch. The entire Gryffindor Quidditch Team seemed determine to pretend that their ostracism of him last year hadn't happened, but he hadn't forgotten. Still, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson had made some attempts at mending the burnt bridges, which counted for something.

Not enough for Harry to really care when slytherin walked onto the field during the practice time that Wood had personally booked. Indeed, he might have used the opportunity to catch up on his sleep, were it not for the _reason_ that slytherin got away with booking the pitch, despite Wood's efforts: Snape's favouritism added to Malfoy buying his way onto the team.

"Why not raffle off those old brooms for the funds to pay for a new set? I expect a museum would pay a hefty price for them—"

"At least they didn't have to _buy_ their way onto the team!" Hermione cried, stomping towards Malfoy. "_They_ got in on pure _talent_!"

She pointed a finger at him, and he eyed it distastefully.

"Stay out of this, _mudblood_," Malfoy said, and that was all the further provocation Ron needed. Harry sighed. Today was just going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

The first thing that Malfoy did, with a vindictive little smirk, was disarm Ron with a spell they hadn't learnt yet, and then he broke the thing, and threw it away. It set off sparks into the grass as Harry glanced at it. Right. Malfoy probably realised that he'd crossed a line here, but perhaps….

"There. I suppose you'll have to drop out of Hogwarts, now. We all know your family can't afford—"

"_Reducto_," Harry snapped, and a cloud of dirt and grass erupted around Malfoy, covering him in dust and dirt, and hiding him from sight. Harry followed the blast of his curse, grasping Malfoy's wrist and yanking it behind him.

"Funny rumour I heard about wandlore," he said. "Namely, that wands can be fickle, and when their owners have been defeated…."

Malfoy whimpered in pain, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Well, at any rate, I'm sure that, since you Malfoys are so rich, you won't mind buying another one."

He pried the wand out of Malfoy's fingers, and tossed it at Ron.

"You'll just have to use that one, for the time being," he told Ron, who stared at him, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to laud Harry or scold him. He followed the sparks and the beginnings of a grassfire to his old wand, picked it up, and tried to fit the pieces back together. It worked about as well as might be expected.

Harry shrugged, and sighed, and kept hold of Malfoy's wand, reminding himself to fetch some of the spellotape he had in his trunk to try to "fix" the wand.

"I would not profess such skill as to use the wand of an opponent," Ron said, by way of explanation, as Harry hauled him to his feet to march them towards the nearest place of refuge, which, as it turned out, was Hagrid's cabin.

Hermione joined them, but the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, half-angered, half-relieved to have practice canceled, retreated back to the Tower for a quick nap.

Harry, however, was wide-awake, and more worked up than he'd expected to be over Malfoy's latest tricks.

Buying his way onto the team? That was what those of wealth and power did. (_But not Tony Stark, hmm? Or the Royal Family of Asgard…no, it takes a certain sort of individual…_) Malfoy calling Hermione a mudblood just reminded Harry of their first meeting, back at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

But to know that Ron's family was impoverished, and to add the weight of paying for a wand to their already tight finances? Harry recognised the attempt at symmetry, but wands were expensive, and the drain on their budgets was thus far from equivalent.

And Harry had spent half of the summer at The Burrow. He knew that the Weasleys were, as a whole, a lot of kind-hearted, generous people, who, despite little being able to afford it, had taken him in, and treated him—for the first time (in this life?) as if he were their own. Generosity of spirit, combined with a pride that resisted anything that might be construed as "charity".

For some reason, it seemed a particularly low blow.

"I don't suppose he managed to hit you with any curses?" asked Harry, shaking his head as he leant back on the stool pulled up to Hagrid's old wooden table. The three of them always sat in the same places, which saved time and attention that might be more profitably spent elsewhere than arguing over seating arrangements.

"He did not have the chance," said Ron, with a sort of dour grin. Hermione sat off to the side, looking to be about three seconds away from wringing her hands.

"What were you lot thinking, picking a fight with Malfoy?" Hagrid snapped, and Harry's eyebrow rose, despite himself, at the uncharacteristic display of temper. What prompted _that?_

"Malfoy is Malfoy," Harry shrugged, keeping his explanation deliberately vague. He just wanted to leave the subject alone and get back to thinking about how to solve this year's problems. Wasn't that what they always did at Hagrid's cabin?

"He called me some sort of a name—" Hermione began. "I don't recognise it—I don't think it's come up in my readings—"

"You wouldn't have," said Ron, still uncharacteristically sullen, himself. Because Harry had intervened (as Harry was just now realising), Ron hadn't had the chance to vent any of his completely-justified anger on Malfoy. Harry suspected that _he_, personally, had pushed both of his friends to the limits of their tolerance, or why _else_ was everyone else in the room in such a sour mood?

As if on cue, Fang approached, inserting his massive head under Harry's elbow with a whine. Harry scratched absently behind Fang's ear, and turned to face Ron, who hadn't needed the reminder.

"He called her a 'mudblood', Hagrid. It is simply a derogatory term for a muggleborn, used mostly by purebloods. It is considered highly offensive and rude for anyone to speak, and therefore, for the most part, wizarding society pretends that the word itself does not exist. Muggleborns figure out its meaning soon enough."

"But to start a fight over something so minor—"

"Oh, it's not just that," Harry said, feeling his spirits sink to match those around the table. "He broke the wand Ron inherited from his brother Charlie. I took Malfoy's wand as compensation. But Ron won't use it—even if, surely, it's much better to be using an unsuited wand that works than one that doesn't."

"Eh, I dunno," said Hagrid. "You can do a lot more harm with an unsuited wand than a broken one, sometimes. Try it, and see how it is."

"And what has _you_ in such a bad humour?" asked Harry. "Only, you usually don't scold us, especially for not doing the most reasonable thing."

Hagrid's beard twitched, and he sighed. "Well, it seems a bit less serious, now. Lockhart was by here just now, offering to help me with my job—thinks he's bigger than anyone else—"

"I'm sure that he just is trying to settle in and make friends," Hermione said, which Harry recognised as the start of her most recent passion: defending Lockhart. Let her keep going, and she'd enumerate all the amazing things he'd figured out in each of his books. That just couldn't be allowed. Better even to change the subject to something unimportant.

"Say, Hagrid, what courses did _you_ take, your third year?"

* * *

Of course, the first week wasn't a _complete_ disaster. One of the first things that happened after his arrival at Hogwarts—on the very first night—was Seamus Finnigan taking him aside, apologising profusely for his behaviour the year prior, with an awkward shuffling of feet, and swearing that he wasn't going to just disregard Harry thus again. Especially without knowing the whole story.

He went on to explain that he'd asked his mum and dad about why she'd waited until they were married to tell Seamus's father about being a witch. She'd said something to the effect of she'd worried what he might think, although she knew he wouldn't react with violence, and she was fairly sure he'd accept it, she still had feared…. It was one of those moments, where putting off the inevitable felt like never having to face it.

She'd explained this to Seamus, and then narrowed her eyes, demanding to know why he was asking all of a sudden. Harry's name had come up in Seamus's flustered explanation, and now Mrs. Finnigan was half-convinced that Harry was a rabble rouser or a trouble maker, determined to ruin her life.

"I guess I shouldn't take what me Mam says so straight," Seamus said, with a bit of a grin. "Don't worry! She won't send you hate mail!" he called back cheerily as he headed into the boys bathroom to prepare for the night.

* * *

While the first months had its ups and its downs, it seemed to have far more of the latter than the former. Harry almost wondered why he felt such fondness for Hogwarts, when it held already quite a few miserable memories for him, mostly centred around two specific professors: Professor Snape, head of Slytherin House, was one, of course. The other was the Professor-in-name-only, Gilderoy Lockhart.

The answer, when given space to think, was that it was filled with magic, and he had made his first friends here (well, technically, on the train ride here, he'd made friends with Ron, but everyone else…). To add to that, he knew that his parents had once walked these same halls, and stayed in the same dormitories.

Like the palace of his dreams, it was filled with memories both bittersweet, and good. It was the palace-on-earth, still, and it had no true contender for "home". At the Weasleys, despite their best efforts, he still always felt that he was an intruder, no matter how welcome. He fought the sense that he must do something to earn his keep, and continuously strove to help pay for his upkeep, in progressively more clever ways, that were nonetheless foiled, with a certain strict permissiveness, by the Weasley heads themselves.

The Burrow was, indeed, very different from Hogwarts. Hogwarts was _home_, or as close as he could get, with no way of accessing the palace on his own. Loki had all the secret doorways between the worlds memorised—or at least, he knew many of them, and could recognise the telltale signs of others. And Harry knew thereby that there were no doors to Asgard near, at least, none that he'd come within sensing distance of. Probably, it made sense—or everyone would have known of the Wizarding World back on Asgard (a wizard would surely have stumbled through, eventually), and it would have been, at the very least, in his background knowledge. It would not have been such a shock, then, to learn that he was a wizard. And that was assuming all of that was real.

He loved Hogwarts, despite the slytherins (especially Malfoy and Snape), despite the professors (especially Lockhart and Snape), despite the rigid curriculum when he was used to freeverse magic, and the staring from his fellow classmates, and the dangers that were always lurking _somewhere_ around the school. He hadn't forgot Dobby's warning.

He needed to remind himself of the fact that he was quite fond of Hogwarts, whenever he encountered Malfoy (who had replaced his wand with uncanny speed), or had to act out yet another scene for Lockhart from his books. (They couldn't possibly be true; he'd only had to read the first two to realise the complete illogicality of them.) Still, Ron was giving him space, and he hadn't had a repeat of last year's nightmares. That might mean that his mother had foreseen the potential danger, and had shut the nightmares out, however she had last year.

He didn't ask her when September Thirtieth came. At that point, he was too busy thinking about the coming match against Slytherin. And more than that, he was thinking of next Hallowe'en, questioning what the Deathday party would be like, barely refraining from asking his mother what she had planned for that night. Last year, she had stayed as Lily for the entire night, and told him stories of the past. Perhaps she would do the same this year?

He _did_ tell her the story of how he had agreed to go to Sir Nick's Deathday party, after Nick had saved him from detention by Filch when the latter had caught him…dripping mud on the flagstones after a rainy quidditch practice session. His mother had laughed a bit, reminiscent, telling him that Filch had always been a miserable, petty sort of man. But when he mentioned the Kwikspell letter on Filch's desk, her gaze softened with…pity?

"He is like Petunia, then. Desperately desiring magic, his envy drives him towards hatred of those who possess it," she said, with a sigh.

Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy. As if to strike home the lessons Loki had failed to learn, it seemed that everyone Harry encountered who made his life miserable was, in truth, motivated by jealousy of some sort. Dumbledore had said that Snape was jealous of his father's talent. Filch was jealous of Harry for having magic (that was a laugh, when he'd been jealous of the normal élites, back when he'd been Loki. If that were true). And now it turned out that Aunt Petunia had broken ties with her sister because she was jealous that Lily had magic, and she didn't. Perhaps that was the reason behind her idolisation of everything _normal, ordinary, boring_, as well.

But Harry was incapable of being ordinary, normal, boring. Even amongst wizards, he was unusual. And, if he had temporarily forgotten Dobby's most dire predictions, they would soon come back to the fore of his mind.


	35. The Living and the Dead

**Chapter Thirty-Five: The Living and the Dead**

He had invited Hermione and Ron to Nick's Deathday party as well, naturally (he'd thought of it beforehand, asking Sir Nick if it would be alright if he brought friends). Sir Nick had been ecstatic at the thought of more people who could assure Sir Delaney-Podmore that he was truly terrifying.

Harry hadn't had the heart to tell him that the other two would most likely do no such thing, Ron because he was unfailingly honest, and didn't seem terribly alarmed by Sir Nick's partial decapitation, Hermione because she would, as Harry suspected he would himself, be spending most of that time observing and taking in the sights.

It was also possible that his attempts to cheer up Sir Nick by telling him he was even _more_ alarming only partially decapitated, while completely true, had backfired on him somewhat. Sure, Sir Nick felt much better after their chat, but…well, Harry would just have to talk to this Patrick Delaney-Podmore, and see what he could do.

Hermione had been the one to bring up a number of valid points, and between her and Ron, Harry was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the plan. They probably didn't have human food at a Deathday party, it was true, and, yes, Ron, it would probably be more dangerous if something like last year happened, and they weren't with the rest of the school. But they couldn't spend the rest of their lives trailing after the Hogwarts professors, and the professors were capable of making mistakes. Wasn't school about preparing you for the real world?

Ron had eventually conceded defeat, perhaps owing in part to Hermione and Harry's joint eagerness towards the idea. He knew he'd be all alone in the Great Hall, if he went to the Hallowe'en Feast.

"And we only have to stay there for a few minutes, or half an hour, say. There's no need to _miss_ the Hallowe'en Feast entirely," Harry made sure to assure Ron. Ron could eat inhuman quantities of food, and Harry didn't want him to miss a meal. Knowing Ron, he'd somehow find a way to be even _more_ irritating, as a result.

Hogwarts was quite as wonderful as he had remembered, in spite of Lockhart and Creevey. The next match quidditch match was in early November, but Wood was keeping the entire team busy, which meant that Harry spent less time dwelling on bad memories.

Such as the incident during his detention with Lockhart. He couldn't even tell the origin of that voice—it had seemed to be coming from some distance away, but somehow, Lockhart hadn't heard it. Was it because of Harry's heightened senses? Or was it something else?

But no matter how he told himself to set it aside, sometimes, invariably, those familiar words surfaced again, in his thoughts. Who had it been threatening to rip, tear, and kill? Was the voice human at all?

As far as he knew, ghosts could look as frightening as they wished, but were incapable of harming people. Peeves was the only ghost in Hogwarts capable of interacting with his surroundings, but he was a friend and ally of the Twins, who were hardly the sorts to go around murdering people, even if they could have gotten away with it. Peeves…well, spirits were simplified from their human identities, which meant that Peeves was just an entity centred around causing as much mischief and havoc as he could. Murder was a bit more extreme than that.

Was this what Dobby had been warning him about? In those brief windows he had to dwell, between school and quidditch, he almost wished that Dobby would reappear, if only to be able to cross-examine him some more.

Somehow, it made sense that, because he was trying to ignore this specific problem (look how getting involved had turned out last year!), it would soon rear its ugly head in his face.

Well, not quite that. But _of course_ the next clue as to what sort of "terrible things" planned for this school year might be came on Hallowe'en. The day was officially curst, Harry decided.

It started, he would realise much later, with Sir Nick's Deathday party. Ghosts had indeed come from far and wide to attend, but Harry and Hermione spent much less time than anticipated taking in the sight of such a congregation, the ghostly customs and rituals, and even the later arrival of Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, with his Headless Hunt. He didn't have the opportunity of quipping that _these_ were people, this was what it meant, to make light of your own death. And that had been half the reason for dragging Ron here.

They were too busy trying to ignore the stench of rotting food that permeated the (gothic) room, despite its size. Sir Nick told them that the food was left to rot because the stench increased its reality to them, allowing them to _almost_ taste the stuff.

It was probably not the smell that did it. Probably it was because the food was decaying, same as (many of) them were. Harry came to this conclusion, but did not voice it. He instead quietly removed the three of them to a less noxious corner. But then, they'd come upon Peeves just as Hermione was complaining about a ghost named "Moaning Myrtle", and he'd called Myrtle _over._

Harry had done his best to soothe the new ghost's distress, but she seemed determined to continue to languish in misery, complaining about how utterly unfeeling Hermione was, as Hermione tried to backpedal.

Judging by her later attitude, asking Myrtle more about her death right then and there would not have helped them at all; she would have just complained that they didn't know her well enough for her to trust them with such a dreadful secret. And he hadn't known the importance, the relevance, Myrtle had to the matter at the time.

No, he wouldn't learn that until it was too late to ask—an hour later, standing outside the flooded bathroom, staring at the limp form of Filch's cat, Missus Norris, as her body, limp as a cardboard cutout, swayed from where it was hung on the torch bracket.

But that was an hour away from Harry's attempts to placate Myrtle. He explained that people were generally quite frightened of ghosts, even wizards, because they didn't like being confronted by their own mortality (or that was what he'd read; he wasn't sure this was true; death did not alarm him overmuch, but Sir Nick's partial decapitation _did_). Hermione had not meant any offence to _her_ personally, but ghosts in general distressed people, especially when they appeared without warning, and the fact that her bathroom was, as Hermione said, "out of order", meant that—

He tried a variety of different tactics, but with Peeves there, anything he said was liable to be twisted or countered by Peeves, who seemed to enjoy the misery of deceased students quite as much as he did current, living ones.

Ron managed to fend Peeves off, and to formally apologise to Myrtle, which she treated with the same dismissive attitude that she had Harry. He wondered if it were even possible _not_ to upset her.

Myrtle had eventually shot off, driven to tears by Peeves's unkind comments, and Ron had stood there, glaring at the poltergeist, but more than aware from prior experience that any attempts to visit violence upon Peeves would be unsuccessful. He set to comforting Hermione instead, a much more feasible task.

Harry left them alone, wandering off to observe the ghastly screeching of Sir Nick's orchestra, and to speak with some of the ghosts he didn't recognise. They seemed to have come from all across Britain; Harry would have to point out to the still-moping Sir Nicholas that he was clearly well-liked and respected amongst the ghostly population.

Maybe tomorrow. Right now, the thoroughly rude behaviour of the party-crashing Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore had caught and held the attention of most of the attendant ghosts, their host included. Harry couldn't blame Sir Nicholas for grumbling under his breath (if ghosts breathed); what sort of complete lack of manners did it take to appear at a party to which you hadn't been invited, after snubbing the host, who was also the one the party was celebrating. And to then _rub into his face_ your dismissal of him?

Harry shook his head. He might not know Sir Nicholas very well, but he'd always had the time to help him, Ron, and Hermione, and he was well known and liked throughout Hogwarts.

"Well, _I_ for one think that it's _much_ scarier to have someone whose neck is only _mostly_ severed," Harry said, folding his arms and tilting his head back, straightening his posture almost without thinking. Borrowed authority, borrowed attitude, borrowed strength.

So what, if it worked?

"Ah, you must be Sir Nick's human friends," said the jovial Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, pausing to juggle his head in his hands, as Sir Nick scowled, his usual good humour nowhere to be found.

"He _is_ our House Ghost. Have you given a thought to how terribly painful his death might have been? You look at Sir Nick, and think 'well, that might have been me, in another time and place'. It strikes me as a far more painful way to die than your clean cut was.

"I think that he is a better person in most regards, actually. Has he ever crashed any of _your_ get-togethers or hangouts, with never so much as a by-your-leave? No, as far as I can tell, his worst trait is that he for some reason looks up to _you_, who don't even give him even the most basic signs of respect. You _dare_ to come here, and parade off your skills, that he happens to lack, through no fault of his own, rubbing his nose in your rejection."

"Well, that's just it: he doesn't qualify for the _Headless_ Hunt," said Delaney-Podmore, with a cheerful smile. "In order to join, your head must be _completely_ severed. Otherwise, how would you go head-hunting, or headless horseback riding, or play volleyball with—"

"And who makes the rules? These activities—are they fundamental to your club?"

The ghosts were now gathering around to watch Harry's confrontation. Perhaps they were bored, or perhaps what he was saying had never occurred to them. At the moment, he neither knew nor cared. Although the thought would alarm him later, at the moment, this was just another argument to be won. And he usually succeeded in those, except when the other party included Odin—

"Well…as the presiding leader of the Headless Hunt, it is for me to decide upon the group's activities. But these all have long-standing history and tradition—"

"Ah, yes. Continue doing things as you always have, _because_ you always have. Would it be so difficult to tweak some of those activities, or even give Sir Nick a _partial_ membership, for his _partial_ beheading, and find some activities in which he _could_ participate? He does, after all, _almost_ qualify for full membership—surely that makes him eligible for at least a _lower_ membership rank?"

"Well, I—I suppose I didn't think of _that_. I will think about it. You have given me a lot to think about, actually, Master—"

Harry paused, blinked, came to himself, glanced around and saw Ron and Hermione, the latter with her head in her hands, Ron beaming at him, both watching the spectacle he'd accidentally made of Sir Nick's party.

"Potter," he muttered, bowing his head, and turning to Sir Nick. "I'm very sorry, Sir Nicholas," he said, suddenly feeling rather worn. "I think it's best if we leave now, before we can cause any _more_ trouble at your party."

"But Harry—" Sir Nick protested, but whatever else he said, Harry didn't hear it. He trudged back out of the room, via the door through which he'd entered; maybe there were others, maybe not, but he couldn't be bothered to find one right now. He didn't notice Ron and Hermione following.

He decided that he might as well go back to the Hallowe'en Feast, but before he could head more than a corridor in that direction—

—_kill_, said the voice from his detention with Lockhart. As if it had been a command uttered by an enemy commander, he stopped dead in his tracks, or rather, skidded to a stop on the loose sediment that was inevitable with a limestone floor. He strained his ears, for the noise, hoping to pinpoint its source. And sure enough, he heard it again, moving further down the hall, away from the Deathday party: _Let me kill this time…._

He broke into a run, trying to catch it up…wherever it was. It seemed almost to be coming from the wall itself—perhaps he'd see something around the corner?

_So__ hungry…for __so__ long… _the voice moaned. Its distress seemed real, and not exaggerated. But for some reason, he couldn't tell if what it was saying were true or false. He frowned. A skilled liar could pull the wool over his eyes, but he sensed that there was something different in play here. And the voice sounded strangely tinny.

He lost his focus for a moment, skidding to a stop and crossing his arms as he turned back to glare at the voice that had cried, "Harry! Wait for us!"

It was Hermione. And she was out of breath from racing after him. Ron caught up to him in that brief time, his gaze flickering between the two of them.

"Is something amiss?" he asked.

"_Shh_!" Harry hissed, closing his eyes and trying to pinpoint the voice again. It was very faint, still mumbling on about murder. "Do you hear that—that voice, from inside the walls?"

Hermione caught up, glaring right back at him. But she must have seen something in the expression on his face, because her glare quickly fell into a worried frown, and she reached out to comfort him. He flinched, and withdrew, and then ran back after the voice, determined to keep it in earshot.

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh, but hurried after him, but Ron had little trouble keeping up with Harry, now that he'd caught up.

"I heard no such voice," he said, his own pitched low. "A voice from the walls? Harry, are you certain—?"

"I know what I heard!" Harry snapped. "Just trust me on this! There's something loose in the school, and it keeps going on about how it's going to kill someone! We have to find out what it is, and at least try to stop it, before everyone comes back from the feast—"

"Are you sure that that is the best plan? They say that there is safety in numbers—"

"And not to yell 'fire!' in a crowded movie theatre. Don't you think talk of murder would make anyone uneasy?"

_I smell blood. I smell BLOOD!_ the voice cried, as if contributing its own opinion. Harry glanced back at Ron, but he showed no sign of having heard it at all. Could it be? Something else that only Harry experienced?

This had better not be another sign of madness.

Loose gravel was an unfortunate, but inevitable hazard when it came to running through the Hogwarts halls. This was a fact that had never seemed quite as important before, such as last year, when he'd roamed the halls in the middle of the night looking for Malfoy's trophy room, but it made the entire hallway and corridors seem rather…slippery. Or perhaps that was actually water on the floor.

He glanced down at the shining steak of wetness. Not all loose gravel, after all.

As he rounded the latest bend, Ron beside him with lips pressed together as if he was considering saying something, which meant he wouldn't, Harry heard a low murmur of many voices coming their way. He glanced at his watch. Frowned as he noted the time. How had they _missed_ the Hallowe'en Feast? If time flew when you were having fun, did that mean that they'd enjoyed themselves, at Sir Nick's Deathday party? It hadn't _seemed_ to last five hours.

He came to a halt before he could slip and fall in the enormous pool of water before him. Ron brought himself to a halt with equal ease, but Hermione's momentum carried her up to them.

But Harry wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the words written in something red (was it blood? Could it be blood?) underneath a torch bracket from which hung Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved cat (beloved by Filch, hated by the rest of the school).

The water of the pool beneath it seeped from underneath a closed door, casting luminescence almost as eerie as that of the blue-flamed candles at Sir Nick's Deathday party, distorting the blood-red letters, and throwing the light of the torch back at itself.

_Where had all that water come from?_ some part of Harry wondered, but most of it was turning over the words of the message.

"_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware_", it read, in all capital letters.

Chamber of Secrets? Enemies of the Heir? What could they be referring to? Did it have anything to do with the miniature lake inhibiting passage of the corridor, or the unusually stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket? Well, of course it had something to do with Missus Norris's current state: she was the example, the warning attached to the threat. _This could happen to you_.

But how were they connected? Who was the Heir?

"'Enemies of the Heir, beware'! Ha! Better watch out! You'll be next, mudbloods!" Malfoy crowed, as he sashayed past the message. He and his goons passed right by the trio without seeming to notice them, for which Harry was thankful.

Still, what had Malfoy been doing here? Harry's eyes narrowed at him.

No. Too obvious, he decided, unless Malfoy was taking refuge in his being too obvious a choice. But no, he doubted that Malfoy had that rudimentary intelligence. The Hat had probably only put him in Slytherin, the "house of the cunning" for want of a better choice. He could just hear it: _Well, you've nothing __like__ chivalry, and no sense of fair play, and you place no value on intelligence, wit, or education…better be "_SLYTHERIN"!

That was, he decided, why Malfoy had been so swiftly sorted.

"Chamber of Secrets…Chamber of Secrets," Hermione was muttering to herself, as the crowd from the Hallowe'en Feast became audible behind them. "I know I've heard of it before."

"Harry! We should leave and find a professor! Inform them of what we found here, before everyone arrives, and—"

"Yes, we should make ourselves scarce. Perhaps if we headed for the common room—"

Hermione was about to pull her impression of a hunted rabbit. Harry rolled his eyes, grabbed her arm, and broke into another run. It would be even more suspicious to run from the scene of the crime back in the direction whence they'd come—and the post-Feast crowd was heading their way. But Harry knew a shortcut that might allow them to slip in amongst them, unnoticed. Thence, they need only seek out Dumbledore.

He frowned. Because that had worked so well the last time?

But this time, he reminded himself, he had every reason to think that Dumbledore was himself present in the school. He might even be in the Great Hall, still.

They exited the hidden corridor, and Harry took a moment to reorient himself (Hermione attempted to glare at him, but was too out-of-breath to succeed much), and then set off at a brisk walk towards the Great Hall. He was only not running for two reasons: the first was to be less conspicuous. The second was out of consideration for poor Hermione. Although part of him wondered why she was the only one of them out of breath.

"This is the path to the Great Hall," Ron noted, brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out what Harry was about. Harry just nodded, trying to think ahead. A voice only he could hear (silent now) coming from within the walls, speaking of murder and bloodshed. He might have dismissed it as all in his mind, were it not for the stone-still Mrs. Norris hanging from the torch bracket, and the words scrawled above the stagnant puddle.

Did he know that corridor? Had he seen it flooded before? What should he say? What should he admit to?

Ron interrupted the direction his thoughts were heading in to address those same thoughts.

"Harry, be careful to whom you admit that you have heard these…voices. Even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices no others can is…unusual."

Harry's heart started pounding, which not even the ten-minute (three hour?) run they'd just engaged in had managed. And what did Ron mean, _even_ in the Wizarding World?

And then he remembered that Mr. Weasley worked in the Improper Use of Muggle Artefacts office at the Ministry, and that he took apart cars for a hobby. And that Ron lived in a muggle town.

He was, in short, being paranoid again.

They rounded the corner, entering the Great Hall…only to find it empty.

Somehow, that figured. Now he'd have to seek out Dumbledore. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Dumbledore would seek out him. He'd been told that the old man knew "pretty much everything that went on in this school".

Did _he_, perhaps, know about the Chamber of Secrets, and the mysterious Heir?


	36. Fuss and Mind Games

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Fuss and Mind Games**

"It must be Malfoy," were the first words out of Hermione's mouth once they were safe back in Gryffindor Tower, and no one was paying them any mind. Harry could see that she'd been turning the matter over the entire walk back, in between glaring at him for leading her all over school on a wild goose chase. No one had any doubt what she meant.

"Really?" asked Harry, in a would-be casual voice. "Just as it 'must have been' Professor Snape who tried to kill me on the quidditch pitch last year?"

Her glare intensified. "I know he did it! Did you hear him gloat? He clearly knew _precisely_ what the 'Heir' was, and who its enemies were, and seemed to think that we—"

"Or he was posturing. Or he knew what the title was—that's likely enough; I'll concede that—but without _being_ said Heir, himself."

Hermione wasn't listening. "But that isn't even what's bothering me most right now. I know I've heard that phrase—'the Chamber of Secrets'—before. I just—I just can't think of _where_!"

Harry paused, frowning. He shot Ron an apologetic glance. "Then perhaps we should check the library—"

"It's after curfew! And I'll bet that the people who _remember_ where I read that name will have checked out every copy of that book before I can get there tomorrow! I could just hit something—"

She was definitely spending too much time with Ron, Harry decided. Since when did _Hermione_ jump to the conclusion that violence was the best answer to everything? Even worse, she even punched the cushion of the armchair she was sitting in, driving the fabric into a deep depression.

She probably _did_ remember what she'd read, but it was one of those things—the harder you tried to remember, the further away the memory went. But it was quite as maddening for him—he'd _never_ heard or read the term before, and if Hermione was right, she was his best source. Hmm. What to do…?

Ron was probably more than a bit alarmed when Harry's head suddenly shot up, and he glanced back at Hermione, who was reduced to frantic muttering to herself, probably thinking that it would somehow make a difference, as if she might reserve the books ahead of time if she just remembered _where_….

_Did_ Hogwarts have a remote library reservation system? He shook his head, glancing at Ron, and putting a finger to his lips, hoping that Ron would, for once, keep silent without needing to be expressly asked.

"Oh, calm down, Hermione. You can't check out books at the library indefinitely, can you?" Harry said, still in his most casual voice, as if he didn't care one way or the other.

She paused. "I don't—I don't _think_ so." She hiccuped a little, but she wasn't crying yet, which was something.

"Hermione," he said, in his most soothing voice. "_Breathe_. I know you're upset, but it isn't as if knowing all this at once is that important. I mean, we're just three students. What could we do about the 'Chamber of Secrets'—whatever it is?"

She was desperate enough for reassurance that she didn't remind him that they were younger and less experienced when they'd saved the Philosopher's Stone, last year.

"Eventually, one of those books will come back to the library. We'll put your name on the lists first thing tomorrow. And if you _really_ feel the need to know more, you can ask Professor Binns in History of Magic—tomorrow?"

"Tuesday," Ron corrected him. That was an acceptable interruption, but Harry still turned to glare at him. _Shh!_ he mouthed at Ron, finger to his lips again. Ron folded his arms, but otherwise remained standing exactly as he had, next to Hermione's armchair. Harry leant forwards in his own, turning his head to the left to address Hermione.

"Al—alright," Hermione muttered, sounding defeated and miserable, still.

"Oh, so what if you don't remember some stupid story!" Harry cried. "You still know _plenty_ of other useful things. Would you feel better if you helped Ron and me with our homework? You could show us up without even trying, I'm sure."

"I'm so _stupid_!" Hermione wailed, as if the dam had burst. She was crying, now, and Ron shot him a sharp look, and Harry sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It was too late in the day for so much noise.

"Hermione," he said, keeping his voice as level and reassuring as he could. Hermione was _very_ difficult to handle. Ron was doing a better job. He'd knelt beside her and was stroking her hair, or something. Harry sighed, shaking his head. Hermione couldn't see him doing that, and neither could Ron, who was standing in front of Hermione's chair, now.

A few of the older, higher year students glared at Hermione. Harry glared back at them. He didn't care if they had some big exams coming up at the end of the year. They should be more worried than this about what had Hermione so upset. She didn't often cry, anymore. Not after she'd joined Harry and Ron.

"Hermione, look at me," he said. She sort of turned to face him, and Ron drew to the side, with another stern look in Harry's direction. Harry ignored him. "You are _not_ stupid. And I can prove it. Just trust me. Do me a favour, okay?"

She hesitated, because she was smart. "What sort of a favour?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

His eyes widened, as if in response, and he spread his hands in a disarming gesture. "Oh, no, nothing _bad_," he assured her. "I'm just going to ask you some questions…and stuff."

"Please, Harry, I recognise _that_ trick," she said, somehow managing to muster up a derisive laugh.

He leant forwards again, turning to face her. "What if I swear to you that what I ask will harm neither you nor anyone else?" he tried.

She didn't seem to have the energy to keep up her objections. Her shoulders slumped. "…Fine…" she muttered.

"Alright," Harry said. "Hermione, who is the current Prime Minister of England?" he asked, first.

"David Carlisle," she replied, with an obviously puzzled frown.

"What's the formula for calculating the volume of a cube?"

"Length times width times height," said Hermione, shaking her head. "_Everyone_ knows the answers to _those_ questions."

Harry paused, cocked his head, considering. "I don't think _Dudley_ does," he said. He shrugged, and moved on to geography.

From geography to chemistry to astronomy to English literature to grammar to spelling to world history he went, occasionally urging Hermione to relax, and asking if she felt a bit more confident now. She rolled her eyes the last time, in response.

"See, you know plenty," he said, and she sniffled, but almost smiled at him. "But you know more than just that. Hermione," he said with a bit of a grin. "What's the difference between aconite and wolfsbane?"

She smiled, too, at that, remembering how Professor Snape hadn't let her answer. Perhaps at this response, Ron glanced over in Harry's direction, expression considering, and then relaxed, moving to kneel next to Hermione's armchair as if she were a queen, and he a courtier.

"They're the same plant," she said, and then, after a pause, "…although I think someone said they had different etymological roots."

Harry continued on to transfiguration, herbology, charms, defence, and even when he occasionally asked for more obscure information, Hermione still knew the answer.

Time to switch tracks.

"You know, Hermione, I've been wondering about fairytales. For some reason, when I complained to adults about my treatment at the Dursleys, they kept comparing me to someone called 'Cinderella'. That sounds to me like a girl's name. But all they'd say is 'you know, from the fairytale?'. I never _could_ convince them that I _didn't_ know. The Dursleys didn't tolerate anything magical being mentioned under their roof. I suppose that's why. I mean, fairies are magical creatures, right?"

Hermione sat up straight. "The word 'fairy' is actually a general, all-encompassing term for a variety of different magical creatures, such as goblins, ogres, and, yes, pixies. They're classified as—"

"Er, Hermione? I just wondered…do you know that fairytale?"

Hermione blinked, and nodded. "Everyone does," she said.

"_I_ don't," Harry corrected her. Ron was shaking his head.

"There are different folktales in the Wizarding World. I am curious about this 'Cinderella', as well."

That was a helpful contribution. Harry would let it slide. He nodded at Ron.

"We wouldn't even know if you made it up out of your head, but, hey, you're our expert! I'm sure you remember just how the story goes. If you wouldn't mind…."

Hermione frowned. "Well…you're right, I do remember it. It wasn't my favourite fairytale, when I was little, but I heard a version from my parents. And there's a Disney movie of it, too. There's actually two main versions of the tale, too—"

Harry leant forward eagerly. "But how does it _go_?"

She shot him a reproachful glare, and sighed. "It begins the same way all fairytales do: 'Once upon a time'. So, once upon a time, there was a merchant whose only family was his wife, and their daughter…."

Harry listened intently to the tale, comparing it with his own upbringing. He supposed he could see some similarities, although the Dursleys would never have thrown good food in the ashes, even had their fireplace been real. But the idea of having to do all the household chores, without a room or even a bed of his own… yes, that sounded familiar. He sighed, and frowned.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, quickly exchanging his frown for a smile. "But…well, are all fairytales so…violent?"

Hermione frowned, considering. "Well, no, not _all_ of them, but many of the better known ones are. 'Snow White' is worse than 'Cinderella', or 'Sleeping Beauty', but 'Rapunzel' is slightly…less…."

"Will you tell us those?" Ron asked, curiosity obviously piqued—he had forgotten that Harry was scheming something. Were wizard fairytales boring, or something?

Hermione huffed, and crossed her arms, but then she started to smile.

"You're like little kids!" she complained. "How do you _not_ already know these stories?"

Harry shrugged. "Dursleys," he said, as if that explained everything. In his eyes, it did.

"The Wizarding World has different fairytales," Ron repeated.

"Well, I suppose I could start with 'Snow White'…although it's getting a bit late—do you want me to read you two to sleep?"

Harry cocked his head, puzzled, and Hermione sighed again, but it was a regretful sigh, this time. "Sorry, Harry."

He just smiled, and tried not to rush her.

"Let's see: once upon a time there was a queen who sat embroidering at her window…."

And from "Snow White", they moved on to "Sleeping Beauty", and then "Rapunzel", the first story to feature an even semi-sympathetic witch.

"I'm starting to see how witches got such a bad reputation," Harry said, as Hermione finished "Hansel and Gretel". "Gruesome" did not even begin to cover some of these tales.

Ron was drinking them in avidly, of course.

"Well, I think we've asked you about enough stories you don't care about. What was your favourite one when you were little?" he asked.

And Hermione launched into a story about a clever peasant girl who marries a king, with much greater enthusiasm than what she showed for the previous ones.

It was also, perhaps not coincidentally, far less gruesome, with absolutely no violence or bloodshed.

"That's amazing, Hermione," Harry breathed, when she was done. "You know so many stories—it's as if you've got a library in your head!" She blushed, and looked down, and Harry pressed on.

"I bet you remember everything you've ever even _heard_," he said. "Or maybe just what you thought was interesting or important, perhaps? If people's minds were houses, I think you'd have a room that was just a library, with every story you've ever heard or read, and every speech you ever listened to or studied, and every class you've ever taken, in it. In fact, I can almost picture it: it would be very spacious, and roomy, and not very comfortable, but it would be filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and they'd be _full_ of books."

"Oh, no," Hermione said, with an almost vague smile. "It would all be in gryffindor colours, because I'm ever-so-glad I got into this house instead of Ravenclaw, you know, but it would be a lot more personalised than you seem to think. I think I'd have photos of my friends and family, too, and chairs with really good cushions, and desks where I could compare the books amongst one another. I wish I really had such a room, now you've made me think of it."

Harry leant forwards. "But you _do_, see. It's in your head, isn't it? Your own _personal_ library. And since you designed it, you'd know where everything was."

She nodded. "That makes sense…I think…."

"Well then, Hermione," said Harry, with a smile. "I just have one more question: _what is the Chamber of Secrets_?"

Ron inhaled sharply, and Harry caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as Ron's gaze snapped to him, but Harry was staring at Hermione. He waited, hoping that Ron's gasp hadn't distracted her too much. Her hand twitched. As if, perhaps, she were picking up a book, flicking it open, beginning to read.

"_The Chamber of Secrets was said to be a secret room within Hogwarts, built with the castle, when Hogwarts was founded a thousand years ago, by one of its four founders, Salazar Slytherin himself. Although many have searched for it in the millennium since his departure, no evidence or trace of the Chamber of Secrets has ever been found. It is widely believed to be fictitious, a legend inspired by Slytherin's infamous hatred of muggles and muggleborns, which led to his departure from his school._

"_Although no trace of the Chamber of Secrets has ever been found, the legend persists to this day. Common counters to the claim that if it existed, it should have been found by now are that, according to the legend, only Slytherin's heir could find or open the Chamber, and that Slytherin, although a dark wizard, is well-known to have mastered many disciplines of magic that have since, owing perhaps to this very infamy, fallen into disuse._

"_According to the legend, before Slytherin left Hogwarts for good, he warned that he had left behind a 'horror within' a hidden chamber of the school, a chamber which had served as his personal study, where he had kept his most closely-guarded secrets. He threatened his former fellow professors and students with the ominous words that one day, his descendant would return, and finish his work of ridding the school of muggles and muggleborns. No sooner had he left the school, it is said, did the remaining Founders reconcile, and together the school was searched thoroughly for any signs of such a chamber. Tellingly, when none was found, however, they did not assume that Slytherin's words were merely an idle threat. This is the greatest evidence of the truth of the legend that there is._

"_No more than speculation can be made as to what manner of monster Slytherin might have hidden within the school, if the tale be true. It is assumed that it is some manner of highly venomous snake, as the snake is the mascot of Slytherin's house, and the man was himself renowned for his rare parselmouth ability._

"_Despite this, it is a fact that Hogwarts is a school of many secrets, and although none have found the Chamber of Secrets yet, it is a distinct possibility that the defenders of the legend are correct in their insistence that none but the Heir of Slytherin could find the chamber. It is said that there is truth behind every story, legend and myth. The truth behind this legend, however, remains to be seen._"

"Ah," said Harry. He wasn't sure what else to say. He remembered that, somewhere in her story, there had been some unfamiliar term or other he had wanted to ask her about, but that question was drowned out by the sudden influx of information. It was a lot to digest, but he'd wanted to hear the story before he went to bed, so that he could ask his mother more about it.

He shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. "Well, that answers some questions, I suppose, while raising quite a few others. Did it say anything else?"

"No," said Hermione, pouting. "I always meant to look up more about it, but it was just a story at the time, and nothing important, unlike all the other information I was reading at the same time. I just…."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, waving his hand dismissively. "You gave us quite a lot of information."

Her eyes suddenly shot open, and she rounded on him. He hadn't expected _that_ reaction.

"Harry!" she shouted, leaping to her feet to point at him. "What did you just do to me?"

He blinked, confused. "What—?"

"I couldn't recall _anything_. Nothing at all! And then you put some sort of—of—"

"Oh, that," Harry said, looking away. "It's just mild hypnosis, is all. It's already worn off."

Hermione gasped, and her glare intensified. "You _hypnotised_ me? Without even _asking_ me first?"

He frowned again, brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out why she was so upset. "Well, yes, that might have meant it didn't work, if you knew what I was doing—"

"You had no _righ_t to do that without asking me! How _dare_ you!"

"What's the problem?" he asked. "Hypnosis isn't what you see on television or read in books, or anything. It's nothing like mind control, or I wouldn't use it. It's just making you relaxed enough to—"

"I don't care! Maybe I would have agreed to your stupid trick, if you had just _asked_ me! This is worse than last year, with Neville! I'm going to bed! And I'm not talking to you anymore!"

She stormed off, leaving a thoroughly confused Harry behind. He turned to Ron, but Ron was frowning too.

"Hermione is right, Harry," he said, and somehow, his reproach was far worse than Hermione's. Perhaps because he almost seemed…resigned. "What you did was wrong. You should apologise to her, come morning."

He hesitated a few seconds, and then stood and went off to the boys dorms. Leaving Harry, for the first time in months, completely alone. But what should he have expected? He'd said it himself: sooner or later, he was _always_ going to be alone.

* * *

Harry leant back in his armchair, and thought. He did not much appreciate the accusations and concerns his own mind was now voicing. Yes, it was not a very nice thing to do, to manipulate someone's mind, but he'd had the best of intentions, and he hadn't made Hermione do anything she hadn't wanted to do—not that you even _could_, using hypnosis. He'd been careful to be courteous and kind to her, to give the illusion of merely shoring up her confidence whilst in fact just trying to get her to relax enough to lead into the true objective of their conversation. In short, he'd "played" her.

That was not something that friends did, was it? It probably wasn't something that _good_ people did, either. And he wanted to claim that it was only because he had no guidance, no familiarity, with how friendship worked, with how he _should_ interact with his peers, and a—what had the Sorting Hat said? a _warped_ sense of morality—to go on. But the moment he tried to talk himself into absolution along that road, it occurred to him….

Last year, too, they had all three been trying to _remember_ where they'd heard the name of Nicholas Flamel before. If hypnosis were just an innocent means of retrieving information, why hadn't he used it then?

The answer was not simple, but complicated. The first part was the most straightforward, but perhaps the most alarming. One reason he hadn't hypnotised either of them then? Was that _Harry Potter didn't know __**how**__ to hypnotise people_. He'd never learnt it, had not wasted any of his precious time back at the Little Whinging Public Library studying it, and certainly hadn't considered researching the matter here at Hogwarts—although he doubted he'd have found such a mundane, "_muggle_" subject in the Hogwarts library.

And this first reason had an entire attendant train of other thoughts attached to it. Because if he, Harry Potter, had never learnt how to hypnotise people, then how did he know?

There were two answers. The first, highly unlikely one was that it was all a coincidence, and nothing had just happened at all. And wasn't that a reassuring thought! But the probable truth was, naturally, that he knew, because _Loki_ knew. The only problem was, owing to his uncertainty over whether it was learnt from Loki or not, he _could_ be sure that it wasn't in any of his memories. What did that suggest? Some sort of innate godly ability? A sort of quasi (or actual) magic Loki had used, but Harry just hadn't witnessed in his dreams? And if they weren't in his dreams, _how had he used it at all_?

Up until now—as he'd thought of it—he'd taken what he'd _observed_, and modified it to fit external reality. That was a safe, normal, third person, external sort of learning, which allowed him to ignore the possible connection between him and Loki. You could watch any expert in action, and, if you were smart in the right ways, teach yourself to do as they did. That's what learning _was_. But to take something you _hadn't_ observed, and nevertheless do as an expert did….

If it was Loki's magic or innate ability, then it said something that Harry didn't want to hear, that Harry could use it, too. If it wasn't—if it were truly something anyone could do, but he hadn't witnessed it in dreams, that said the same thing. Harry really didn't like what he thought it was saying.

He remembered his behaviour at Sir Nick's Deathday Party, too. It was as if he'd slipped into some sort of third space, between Loki and Harry Potter, which was, frankly, an alarming thought. Perhaps he shouldn't've, he sensed his mother disapproved, but he'd shoved whatever was affected and controlled—tainted—by Thanos, into a box he'd labeled "Loki", and put it away, in the farthest recesses of his mind. Did that mean, in those seconds, he'd been vulnerable to Thanos's influence?

And even if no, did it mean that _he_, Harry Potter, was being subsumed by the figure of his dreams—Loki? Did that mean that, perhaps in a few years, there'd cease to be a "Harry Potter" at all? To say that that question made him uneasy would be an understatement. But what was the weight of ten years' worth of memory, next to the centuries of memories that Loki had, real or not?

Because last year, he _knew_, even _had_ he known how to hypnotise his friends, he wouldn't have. There was perhaps too much bad press surrounding the subject, but it was also too…manipulative. Too personal. It was treating people like tools, and even for the greater good….

He frowned to himself, staring down at the floor. Ron had been the last person save for Harry himself to leave the common room. It had emptied out at midnight, when Hermione had been telling the tale of Rapunzel, and he'd barely noticed, then.

He noticed, now.

_Am I a monster?_ he wondered. The thought had never really occurred to him before, but Hermione and Ron had a fair point: it was dubious at best to manipulate a person's mind or emotions without their permission.

He sighed, leaning forwards but tilting his head back towards the ceiling, thinking hard.

Maybe something had happened, last year. He remembered the forewarning in the Forbidden Forest, that something _bad_ was waking. Beneath the school, facing down Quirrell, that premonition had been realised. And then he and Ron had set it aside, as if it had never happened. As if it would have no lasting effects.

He needed to talk to Mother. He was beginning to realise that his thoughts were trying to enter dangerous territory. And Ron wasn't here to pull him out of them.

Sleep eluded him. He had too much to think on, and armchairs did not make the most comfortable of beds. And yet…he did not feel like entering the gryffindor boys dorms. It would bring back to mind everything that had happened before, and Ron's disappointment in him…the resignation, almost as if he'd _expected_ it.

Harry stared at his shoes as he scuffed at the carpet underneath. He closed his eyes, and tried to relax, thought of hypnosis, and started awake.

Insomnia being as perverse as it is, he didn't sleep at all that night.


	37. 37

**temporary author's notes:** On boring, author-related stuff, which you can skip. I'm deleting this note eventually, so comment on it at your own risk.  
2\. This story is supposed to be fun for me to write. Instead, it's become stressful, and I'm taking it way too seriously. Therefore, I'm taking a break from working on it. I should have put this note up a few weeks ago, because that's how long since I already put it on the back burner (or took it off the stove?).  
Accordingly I, never exactly good at thanking anyone for their reviews, or responding to them, will take the time now, to say here: thank you, to all of you who have reviewed (or at least, to all of those who gave me a chance).

* * *

**Chapitre Trente-Sept: Ceci n'est pas un Chapitre**

Even though it was a Sunday, the events of the night before were so…compelling, that he couldn't sleep in. He was beginning to question if he had done the right thing, chastising Harry as he had. But in that moment, he had been forcibly reminded of another time, another confrontation, a different sort of mind game. Perhaps he'd overreacted, but at that point in time, he had thought, perhaps, that if he had reprimanded Harry, it would cause him to reject any such mental manipulation in the future.

But perhaps, instead….

He remembered that expression on Harry's face, pushing him away at the end of last year, the way he'd apologised more fervently than necessary whenever he thought he'd overstepped bounds, always wary, always alert.

Always convinced that they would leave him if he didn't. Just as Thor _had_, last night.

He opened his eyes to a dormitory with four occupied beds, and one missing individual. He drew aside the curtains for the day, glancing around the room, seeing that the curtains of the other beds were all closed—except for those around Harry's.

Had Harry even come to bed last night?

Harry would say that he was smothering, fretting needlessly, that he was _fine_, that he could take care of himself. And Thor knew that Harry was strong enough. But it was not a question of strength. He was still driven, too, by the feeling that he _should have done_ more (_What more could you have done?_ asked the ghost of Tony's voice, again), that he had failed Loki, and now, he thought that he might well have failed Harry, too.

He should say something. He should check on Harry. He should perhaps even apologise for what he had said. The night of Hallowe'en had been a long one, for everyone in the castle. Tensions were high, rumours already abounding, he was sure, and perhaps fear was beginning to permeate the castle, spread unintentionally, and not, by those who remembered what the Chamber of Secrets was, who the "enemies of the Heir" would perforce be.

He descended the stairs back to the common room several minutes later, ready for the day, wondering where Harry was, questioning what he should have said, what he _should_ say, when he saw Harry next.

Harry was still sitting in the same armchair, head bowed, eyes closed, but his head rose as Thor descended the stairs. His eyes opened, and he cocked his head, and then looked down at the floor, again.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said. "I already apologised to Hermione, but she would hear none of it."

"I shall speak with her," Thor offered. Harry frowned, eyes closed, head bowed. Fleetingly, he wondered if Harry had fallen asleep.

"What I did was wrong. I understand that—now. But (and I know this will sound incredible) I don't even know _why_ I did it. Am I just a bad person?"

Even if that question was rhetorical, Thor was going to answer it. He couldn't tell; it might have been, but it didn't matter. He was not letting such an opportunity go to waste.

"No. You told us, yourself, that you did not see that what you did was in any way bad. You were trying to assist Hermione, and what you did…did not harm her. Your mistake was that you did not explain to us, that you did not ask for her permission. I believe that is why she is so upset. But, as I think of it now, I was too harsh on you, as well. The Dursleys cannot have been…suitable role models, and from whom else would you learn manners, or morals? Truly, we should be impressed that you have _any_ understanding, of either."

Harry seemed to be trying to smile, but it was faded, and strained, frayed, perhaps, around the edges, and his eyes were still closed.

The eyes were the windows to the soul. Thor'd heard that phrase before, but it had made little sense, then. But for Harry, whose rein on his emotions was always tight, his eyes were sometimes the only gauge of his mood.

"You are a good person, Harry," said Thor. "Perhaps you…'got carried away'? I found Hermione's method of telling those stories very engaging—"

"I _planned_ it. From the beginning," Harry snapped, interrupting. His voice sounded hoarse, and yet somehow distant. Weary. Thor wondered, again, if he'd slept at all the night before.

Harry's head finally lifted again, his eyes snapped open, but then, as if forcibly redirecting his own actions, he picked at the nap of the arm of his chair instead, gaze falling back to the floor.

"Yes," Thor agreed. "I knew that you were planning something. But at that moment, I did not remember such concerns. You would say that such is normal behaviour for me, but, as it turned out, I worried needlessly."

Not even the hint of a smile. "Hermione is still 'not on speaking terms' with me," he said. "But you're telling me what I did _wasn't_ wrong? She said it herself: I _tricked_ her."

…And now, Thor was wondering whether Harry had done _anything at all_ wrong, or if, somehow, sleight-of-hand, and subtlety, were just too much of who Harry was as a person. Natural as breathing. If he tried to steer Harry away from any path that _might_ harbour Thanos's influence, if Harry obeyed, and limited himself to activities that met with society's approval, with Thor's approval, such as it was, what was left for him? Thor had never, even when Loki had been at his most disruptive, or at his bitterest, wished for Loki to be just another, younger version of himself.

The real question, then: were his actions, unintentionally, bent towards turning Harry into something he wasn't? Into denying who he was? Had it been _Thor and Hermione_ in the wrong?

"You meant _well_," he said, into a gathering silence. "That is the most important fact. I might not approve of what you did, but I understand why you did it, and I realise…that you are not like me. Perhaps I was unjust. Perhaps _I_ was wrong."

Harry blinked, frowning, brow furrowing, he tilted his head to the side, studying Thor. It was far too familiar. Thor had to look away.

There was a moment of silence, when neither of them said anything, but then Harry said, "Then…you forgive me?" And when Thor just nodded, he continued. "But Hermione made it quite plain that she would not be setting aside my mistake as readily."

"I will speak with her," Thor offered, again, and Harry sighed, shook his head, but at least the ghost of a smile finally appeared. "Give her her space," he suggested. "I can't really blame her for her reaction…."

"It would make for awkward conversation at breakfast," Thor began, but Harry waved a hand, not looking at him.

"I'm not going to breakfast, I think. I'm rather tired—I didn't sleep at all, and as this is a Sunday…I at least have the chance to sleep in. I haven't seen Dean, Seamus, or Neville come downstairs, either, which means you're up before everyone else. If breakfast sounds appealing to you, go ahead.

"And don't worry about me. I'll be _fine_ here on my own."

It seemed that, despite not looking, Harry had noticed Thor open his mouth to speak. That should not be possible, and yet, somehow, it made sense.

"Are you sure?" Thor asked, instead. It seemed horribly irresponsible to leave Harry in such a state, but at the same time, he knew that Harry didn't appreciate what he considered "overprotection".

Another nod was his response, still with that vague smile, and Thor resolved to hasten through breakfast to return to see how Harry fared. They could, all three of them, any of the three of them, be rather stubborn when they felt it important.

* * *

They could, any of the three of them, be rather stubborn when they put their mind to it. Including Hermione. She frowned when she heard about the conversation Thor had had with Harry in the gryffindor common room. Thor suspected that she hadn't slept as well as she ought to have, either, but after last night's scare, combined with the fact that last night had been Hallowe'en… well, most of the _school_ was tired and wary after last night. Already questions as to what the Chamber of Secrets was, and who the Heir could be, were beginning to circulate round the school. Hermione rolled her eyes, listening to the chatter.

"Harry's tough," she said, shrugging her dismissal of Thor's words. Remembering that metal conducts electricity, Thor pushed his plate aside, to reduce the risk that he would bump into it. It was a good thing that few people were awake at this early hour; there were few to notice him make mistakes, if he, for instance, accidentally set the tablecloth on fire, or filled the silverware of the table with something a bit stronger than static electricity. Which would probably also set the tablecloth on fire, albeit less directly. "I'm sure his relatives scolded him before, but I _know_ McGonagall has, and Snape. He always just dismisses it."

"This seemed different," Thor insisted, and Hermione raised an eyebrow (she and Loki could do that, but Thor suspected that he would never learn, himself). "I believe that we genuinely upset him, this time. He cannot help being who he is, and what skills he possesses. Perhaps you ought to apologise to him."

Hermione glared up at him through her curly bangs, stabbing a pancake with alarming viciousness. "Ask for forgiveness?" she snapped. "He's the one who did something wrong!"

"Bet he didn't see it that way," Ginny said, sliding down next to them. Her hair was a stringy mess, as if she'd slept for several days, and then been so hungry that she couldn't bother making herself presentable before coming downstairs. "We are talking about Harry, right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Who _else_?"

Ginny nodded, stretched, and yawned. "Sorry, 'Mione, I didn't sleep too well last night. I think the stress of school may be getting to me."

Hermione gave her a kindly smile. "That's alright, Ginny. I was there last year."

Ginny shrugged, and slumped over the table. "But Harry…well, he sort of made my life hell this last summer, but I don't think he _meant_ to, and he felt right awful after it. I just reminded myself that the Dursleys wouldn't have taught him about something they thought so little of as tact. Or morals. Or consideration of others. Or—"

"Good Lord!" Hermione cried, now sounding much more alert. "What did he _do_?"

Ginny gave a weary smile that barely lifted the corners of her eyes. "Oh, trashed my room, dyed my hair black, the usual. Mum said that that's usually a sign that—Oh!"

She sprang to her feet, and raced away, and Fred and George sat down a few seconds later, on either side of Hermione. They knew she had a fixation with rules, same as Percy, and that she therefore appreciated their presence least of those present. They were like cats, that way.

"Oh, fine. I didn't mean to shatter his fragile ego!" Hermione snapped, stabbing the still cold butter in the butter dish so hard the dish threatened to shatter. Thor wondered why she was in such a bad mood, but knew better than to ask. Mostly. "But, I'm waiting until after breakfast!" she continued, glaring around their part of the table as if daring anyone to argue with her.

"That would most likely be best," Thor agreed, folding his arms, and nodding. "He _did_ say that he was going to sleep."

"What…didn't he get any sleep last night?" asked Hermione, brow furrowing.

"As it seems, no," Thor said, trying to keep his tone mild.

"Oh," Hermione said, subdued now. She stared down at her plate, and for a moment, was silent. "I suppose I was thinking that he would be down any minute, and we could discuss—"

She waved her hand in an all-encompassing motion around the Great Hall, even though not everyone _was_ discussing the Heir of Slytherin, or the Chamber of Secrets.

Fred and George picked up several slices of bread, and then stood, moving off, presumably to work on further pranks. Thor tried not to shudder, but…had he not been victim of enough pranks during Loki's adolescence? The Twins were merciless.

"I didn't realise…." Hermione was biting her lip when Thor turned to her, to see what she was going to say. He waited for her. She even began to wring her hands. "I just thought…but then, I remembered…. Didn't I tell you what he said last year, before he went off to face Quirrell?"

No. She hadn't. But did he want to _know_?

"He said something about how he didn't think he was even a good person, let alone a good wizard. And what he said at the end…that he was glad to have been my friend, 'while it lasted'…. It sounded as if he expected to _die_. And his last words were that he wasn't good enough? That I should have more friends like you?"

She shook her head. "And then, before I could say anything, he went through the flames. And when we found him, I was just too worried, I guess, to think of what he'd said before. But now…" she closed her eyes. "I think I understand why you worry about him all the time."

Was he _that_ obvious? But what Hermione said…it was not a good sign. Was Harry _that_ insecure? It was rather like dealing with Loki all over again, only…Loki hadn't been _insecure_, had he? Just jealous. Thor didn't know how to treat Harry, anymore than he knew how to treat Loki. What should he do? How could he help? _Was_ he being overprotective—or not protective enough? (He _died_ again. _Last year_.)

He bowed his head, staring at the table before them.

"I just…and what Ginny said, about him not knowing any better. How is he to learn proper behaviour if we push him away any time he makes a mistake? I just…I mean, I didn't realise quite how his life has been, I suppose."

"Perhaps you ought to have come with Fred, George, and me, when we went to rescue him from the Dursleys."

Hermione teared up, and attempted to shove her fist into her mouth. Thor didn't understand the gesture, but then, Hermione was nothing like any of the girls he was used to. Not like Sif. Not like Natasha. Not even like Ginny. It made her more difficult for him to understand.

"I believe he is best left alone for the moment," said Thor, "as he is trying to sleep. I intend to check to make sure he is safe in an hour's time. You might come with me."

Hermione shrugged. It was a helpless little shrug, which was somewhat frustrating, but Thor sighed, understanding her difficulty, at the very least.

"In the meantime, what was it you wished to speak about?"

Hermione brightened at the question, and he braced himself for a little-understood lecture on the precepts of magic, the kind she usually shared with Harry, who inevitably looked either amused or bemused at her theories.

"I've had an idea! How to sneak into the slytherin common room without being recognised."

Thor wondered if he should point out the invisibility cloak that Harry possessed. Or did she mean to do this without Harry, as he disapproved of her theory? Or was there some reason the cloak itself wouldn't work…?

"Have you ever heard of Polyjuice Potion?" asked Hermione, leaning across the table towards him. He blinked, pulling his plate closer again, now that he had calmed down. Accidental magic was triggered by intense negative emotions, but concern did not count.

Polyjuice Potion…that term sounded slightly familiar. But he couldn't place it. Not even where he'd heard of it. Potions class, maybe?

"It's a potion that allows the drinker to borrow the form of another for an hour at a time. But it's considered dangerous, or rather, _tricky_, and the brewing is not recommended for less experienced brewers. But… well, I know that I could do it. I'm sure of it. But the recipe isn't in any of our school books. It's…."

She paused, and he had the sinking suspicion that he knew whither her sentence was bound.

She lowered her voice. "It's in a book called _Moste Potente Potions_. Which is in the Restricted Section."

There it was. Really, he wasn't the one to have this conversation with. Fleetingly, he wished that he could request the assistance of the other Avengers, but they were two decades away, yet. Tony still in the weapons trade. Steve still on ice. Who knew where the others were?

Despite the indignity of such a position, he buried his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the table. He was _really_ not the ideal individual to ask for help in infiltrating the forbidden section of the library.

"You will need Harry's assistance," he informed her, deciding to be direct. He straightened up, and glanced around, surreptitiously, as if to check whether any had been paying attention. Hermione bit her lip.

"You must have some idea—"

"We do not possess this book yet, and therefore I can contribute no ideas concerning this potion. Nor is concealment and secrecy a skill that I possess. Your plan requires Harry's insight."

Hermione pouted, but let the subject go.

* * *

When she saw that Harry was, in fact, asleep, she seemed to have misgivings. She huffed, and Harry, at even that small noise, sat up, pulling aside the curtains around his bed.

"Hermione?" he asked, blinking. "What are you doing here? Or are we still not on speaking terms?"

He cocked his head, considering, and Hermione began to wring her hands again.

"You're so stupid!" she wept, and he blinked, frowning, as if he didn't recognise the meaning of the words. To be fair, that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're always getting yourself into dangerous situations! And pushing people away! Don't you understand that Ron and I care about you?"

"Ron, do _you_ understand why she's saying all this?" asked Harry, glancing at Thor, who was quite as bewildered as Harry.

"I believe she recently remembered something that you said at the end of last year, and—"

"There! I said something to you! And I'm sorry for being so harsh on you last night. Now get some sleep. I have something I need to discuss with you both."

"…I'm listening," Harry said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"No. Go back to sleep. It can wait. I'll just discuss it with Ron."

Thor glanced at her, again. She _did_ remember that he had said that Harry was the individual to ask concerning this, right? But she seemed torn between regret concerning last night's argument, and a righteous need to save the world (or the school) from the machinations (whatever they were) of the Heir of Slytherin. Which would prevail—concern for her friend, or concern for the safety of the school?

Harry made the decision for her, standing as if the past hour were sufficient sleep for him to work with (perhaps it was—it was only the extended weight of a week shortchanged of sleep that had put Harry in such straits last year, right?), and picking up his school satchel. Then, he paused.

"Is this a _private_ sort of conversation?" he asked.

Hermione nodded.

"Then we shall just have to find an unused classroom. As there is no school today, there must be plenty of them."

He was already contributing idea to Hermione's plan, and he didn't even know what it _was_ yet.

And so, trying to ignore that nagging suspicion that Harry was not well enough to be wandering the school, he followed Harry back out the door, and they returned to breakfast, with Harry insisting that they leave the scheming for slightly later. It wasn't until later that it occurred to Thor that Harry was, in fact, looking after _him._


	38. Dobby's Bludger

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Dobby's Bludger**

In the aftermath of the petrification of Mrs. Norris, and the memory of needing a place to hide, Harry resolved to bring the invisibility cloak with him everywhere he went, henceforth. It seemed to be the ultimate tool for hiding, but it was no good to him up in the Gryffindor Tower (and it could be the more easily stolen, there). This carried with it the need to train himself to resist the sensible but counterproductive urge to disappear in Lockhart's class. He managed.

Harry was the one to come up with the plan of getting Lockhart (the airhead) to sign the note requesting _Moste Potente Potions_ for them, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Still, the thought of _Hermione_ coming up with a plan to brew an illegal (and it had to be illegal—why else would the only recipe be in a restricted access book?) potion was irresistible. At the very least, he would see whether or not she had the guts to follow through.

Ron was probably wondering about his enthusiasm, but he had the almost-perfect cover of being Harry, Seeker of Redemption to excuse his actions. And his enthusiasm. Still, by now they probably both knew him well enough to be suspicious, that he had ulterior motives.

Hermione, however, was, for the moment, a bit preoccupied with reading the recipe, and figuring out how she was going to go about brewing it.

Her conclusion that they would have to _steal some of the ingredients from Professor Snape's cupboard_, however, was, somehow, unexpected.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?" he demanded to know. She was too busy fretting over the plan she was concocting to acquire said ingredients to pay him any heed, but Ron glanced his way, looking quite as lost as Harry felt, but not half as amused.

How far will she go to brew this potion? Apparently, we can cross breaking the law off the list of obstacles.

Harry stared out across the grounds, at the trees of the Forbidden Forest, some of them leafless and quivering in the wind, and realised that he had given no heed to practicing the _other_ sort of magic since Diagon Alley. That just would not do. But other things had been occupying his mind—Lockhart, quidditch, and the voice in the walls, speaking of murder. But he had just come to an idea, and was now feeling the consequence of ignoring practice for so long. It took a month to brew Polyjuice Potion, and Hermione would not begin brewing until she had all the ingredients. And she was saving those that she would have to steal for last.

But, perhaps, was there another option? He remembered what his mother had said—that she and Professor Snape had once been friends. And he remembered, further, that he had once managed to pull her into the outside world, but it had taken its toll on him. Just how good of friends had they been? Just what might Professor Snape be willing to pay, for closure, for the chance even to speak with her again? His mother spoke of him with regret, as if they had parted on bad terms. But who was responsible for the nature of that parting, for that falling out?

He wished that he'd had a chance to speak with his mother.

After much thought and consideration, and much practice besides, in out-of-the-way classrooms, in the middle of the night (usually) of the other kind of magic, Harry decided that he would save this particular means of dealing with Snape for another situation, and follow through with Hermione's plan to steal the ingredients. For one thing, he needed to ask his mother more about her relationship with Professor Snape. For another…well, it was always good to have _something_ up your sleeve, as a backup plan, and finally, _suppose it didn't work_? Then, Snape would have forewarning, and would know _precisely_ whom to suspect of stealing his boomslang skin (or whatever it was that Hermione was planning on stealing).

Meanwhile came their first quidditch match of the season, delayed on account of Malfoy's need to insinuate himself more thoroughly into the team (or whatever excuse they'd made). Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw had taken the place of the usual October match.

Being November, it was a bleak and dreary autumnal day, but at least it wasn't raining. That was something. Nevertheless, Wood seemed almost… _intimidated_ by the set of new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones that the slytherin team was using, although he tried to cover it up in his pre-match pep talk by saying something about showing them that "it wasn't the brooms, it was the people on them" that was important. Despite knowing that it was all show, the team was nevertheless galvanised. The match was brief of a necessity, and ended with Harry stealing the snitch out from under Malfoy's nose. _That_ was a satisfying sort of revenge. Or it would have been, had it not been for the circumstances of the match.

It was short of a necessity, not because of the superior equipment of the opposing team, but because there was a specific bludger that seemed to have it out for Harry. No matter where he went, or what he tried, it followed him all over the pitch. There were many narrow escapes, and Harry was obliged to tell Wood that the team should focus on scoring, and the Twins should focus on protecting the three chasers, and that he'd handle the bludger on his own.

If nothing else, if all else failed, he was no stranger to pain. Again, his unfortunate past served him well. The match resumed, and the chasers were scoring, which was good for them, but Harry couldn't pay any attention to the match, because he was still eluding the rogue bludger. He wished that players were allowed to carry wands during the game, at that moment, even though Malfoy would have found innumerable ways to use this to cheat. Right now, he'd even take the broken wand _that Ron was still using_, even though it might backfire on him, as it had several times on Ron. At least it _might_ provide some sort of defence.

He almost flew straight into Malfoy, and for once it would have been an accident. Malfoy opened up his usual line of taunts (really, are you going to mock someone for doing what is necessary to avoid being killed by a bludger?), but Harry wasn't even listening, because of the snitch hovering near Malfoy's ear.

He rushed Malfoy, Malfoy swerved to avoid a collision, and Harry chased the snitch downwards, which cut his peripheral vision down somewhat, which was how the bludger caught him unawares as it did.

He was fairly sure that he'd broken his arm, there, although he'd never managed to do that in all his years at the Dursleys (and despite Dudley's best efforts). He managed to not crash into the grass (which would have destroyed his broom. Oh, and probably caused him more damage), pulling up at the last second, and then swinging off. The world was fading in and out of focus as it usually only did when he'd gone several days without food. His arm throbbed, trying to bring to mind half-remembered torments, which he shoved aside with some violence.

He saw Hermione and Ron running towards him across the pitch (Ron leading, naturally), and strained to keep himself from fainting, or something equally humiliating. He smirked at Malfoy, who was glaring at him, and then turned when Malfoy's expression turned into a matching smirk at something (or rather, someone) behind him.

The pain of his injury was enough that he barely noticed unimportant things like the clicking of a camera shutter closing, and the bright light of its flashbulb. That would always be less important than avoiding the current catastrophe approaching him in the form of a grinning blond in robes of periwinkle blue. Could he not catch a break, or something?

"Broken arm, I see," said Lockhart, voice matter-of-fact. "Well, you're in luck! I happen to have sustained many injuries over the course of my adventures, and learnt how to heal them myself—can't always find a decent hospital in the further reaches of the world. Stay still, now—"

Harry, despite the haze of pain, recognised what he was about to do, and dodged the first flash of light. "No, thank you," he said. "I think I'd best see Madam Pomfrey."

He turned to Ron, with a silent plea. He was trying to be both diplomatic and observe common sense, which dictated that under no circumstances, including emergency, should Lockhart be allowed to attempt to repair his arm.

"Professor—" Ron began.

Lockhart ignored him. "This won't take but a moment, but if you don't hold still, I might make a mistake."

That sounded a threat. Harry turned from him to walk away. "No thank you, professor," he said.

He should not have turned his back on Professor Lockhart. A moment later, he felt something make impact with his arm, and when he glanced down at said arm, which was unusually wobbly, it took him a moment to figure out what had happened. Because yes, his arm didn't hurt, but…it also seemed to be lacking some of the necessary components of arms. Like bones. And while he couldn't be sure, owing to the complete disconnect, he thought his hand might now be in the same state.

"Oops…not to worry, that happens sometimes. I can just—"

"I think you have done more than enough," Ron said, folding his arms and bodily blocking Lockhart's aim. He turned his head to Harry, clearly torn between the two equally important needs to hinder Lockhart, and to escort Harry to the Hospital Wing.

Neville and Seamus appeared, instead, Seamus making a rather rude gesture at the incompetent teacher behind his back, and Hermione, wringing her hands, brought up the rear. They made for a strange, almost comedic, procession, but Harry was too busy thinking about what might have happened—what Lockhart had possibly done to his arm—to notice.

Creevey was still snapping photos, but the resentment he might feel for the younger boy was dwarfed by whatever emotion this was arising out of his now-humiliation (torn from the jaws of a rather satisfying triumph). Malfoy had the last hurrah, and _why had the bludger been coming after him, anyway_?

Ron caught up to them on the way to the Hospital Wing. Harry didn't have the focus to ask what he'd done with Lockhart. He didn't care. Ron's borrowed wand was fickle at best, and might have done anything from turned him into a toad to set him on fire. As long as Lockhart wasn't about to reappear, Harry didn't much care. Preferably, Lockhart was suffering something equally ignominious, but he'd settle for mere distraction, as long as he didn't have to see Lockhart before their next Defence class. And, knowing Ron and Hermione, Lockhart was merely suffering a mild inconvenience—perhaps called away by Dumbledore.

He tried to ignore the stares, or the way Colin Creevey trailed after them, still snapping pictures, as they traversed the (mercifully mostly empty) halls. The silence was due more to the absurdity of the current situation than any real exertion on the part of Seamus or Neville, but he was thankful for their company, anyway—even when Ron and Hermione joined the party. These latter two seemed to take their cues from Neville and Seamus, keeping silent.

Immediately upon their arrival at the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey bustled over to them, clucking as she observed Harry's unnaturally…_bendy_ arm.

"You should have come straight to me!" she cried, when they had related the story. "Broken bones are easy enough to mend—" Neville nodded agreement at this, "—but to regrow bones entirely…I'm afraid you will have a rather painful night. You'll need a full beaker of SkeleGrow to replace all of those bones, and I'll see what I can find for the pain."

Harry didn't say that it didn't hurt right now. It would probably start right up again once he'd started regaining his bones. And nerves.

Seamus and Neville departed before he'd even received his beaker of foul-tasting medicine, their duties fulfilled, but Hermione and Ron remained, Ron glowering at nothing. He was rather alarming angry. It was probably part of the reason his death glares worked so well.

Harry decided to set aside thought for when he had the bones with which to write them down.

He took the first medicine, the revolting SkeleGrow, and then moved onto whatever pain remedy Madam Pomfrey had found in her cupboards.

"It isn't so bad," he said, in between the two servings. Hermione scoffed. Ron sat down in a nearby chair for visitors, and said nothing.

"I'll be fine. You should go…work on your homework, or something. I'm afraid I won't be half as much fun, asleep."

They might have made a response, but he chose that moment to take his dose of potion, and promptly fell fast asleep. Useful.

* * *

He awoke after several hours to gnawing pain in his arm, as if someone were hammering away at it. To judge by the dimmed lights, it must now be nighttime, when he ought to be asleep, anyway.

He quickly realised that two big green eyes were staring down at him, and it was this sixth sense of being watched that had woken him.

Of course, the eyes could belong to only one person: Dobby, currently engaged in daubing at Harry's forehead with a damp cloth. It was sort of creepy.

Harry shot bolt upright, dislodging Dobby, taking stock of the current status of his arms. He could move them independently, at least, but he suspected that it would be best to move his right arm as little as possible. Possibly it would affect the way the bones would grow, and he wasn't going to risk that.

"Dobby!" he hissed, wincing at a fresh twinge in the arm. "_What_ are you doing here? No, never mind that. Tell me what's going on here. You gave me a warning before I ever came to the station this year; you _must_ know _something_!"

"Oh, Master Harry Potter! Why did you not listen to Dobby's warnings? Dobby did everything he could to keep you out of danger, for he knew that the Chamber would be opened this year. He'd overheard plans to make Hogwarts a dangerous place indeed—"

Harry grimaced, and tried to flex his hand. Failed. "I don't suppose you could tell me _whom_ you overheard saying such things? Because the Chamber of Secrets _has_ been opened, Dobby, and everyone is in a panic over it."

Unless he was very much mistaken, Dobby wasn't listening. "That is why Dobby closed the barrier to the Platform, and when he went home, he had to iron his hands and leave them in the oven for five minutes, sir—" He held up heavily-swaddled hands, and Harry felt a twinge of pity, despite himself. Dobby once again seemed so earnest, so _well-intentioned_. But, wait a minute, had he just admitted to closing the barrier?

"Then _you_ closed the barrier to keep me out, to keep me from coming back to Hogwarts." Dobby nodded furiously, and Harry frowned. "And judging by your lack of surprise at my current condition, laid out in the Hospital Wing, you had something to do with the bludger that wouldn't stop attacking me, hmm? Did you realise it could kill me? Are you trying to kill me, Dobby?"

There. He'd asked it, flat out.

"No! No!" Dobby's eyes, already wide and bulbous, widened so far it was a miracle they didn't fall right out. "Dobby wanted Master Harry Potter injured enough to be sent home, sir! Better grievously injured, Harry Potter sir, than dead! Better grievously injured, than here when the attacks start!"

"And did you think I would just abandon my friends?" Harry demanded, his voice oozing cold authority without him even trying or realising. But Dobby was sincere in his desire to protect Harry, and when he flinched, Harry's voice softened, almost automatically. He knew what it was to be the cowering servant, living in constant fear.

"My best friend is a muggleborn, Dobby," he said, his voice soft, but no less dangerous for its deceptive gentleness. "She would be among those first on the list, if Slytherin's monster gets loose and starts killing people. Do you think that I—whom you claim to be a great, and noble wizard—would prefer to save myself, while my best friend was killed by a monster?"

"Oh, no, Master Harry Potter sir!" He looked as pathetic as it was possible for a creature to look, with his nose and eyes running, and his ears drooping straight down. "But Master Harry Potter—if he only knew what hope he brought to us lesser races…perhaps he would understand…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not kind to us lowly house-elves, Master Harry Potter, sir! And when you defeated him, it was a new dawn for us…."

"Well, I choose to stay here at Hogwarts. This is my home—not those Dursleys, and it was only a miracle that saved me from death this summer at their hands. Don't you see, Dobby? Even with a killer on the loose, I'm still safest _here_, with Albus Dumbledore, and other people who _care_ about me. I will not leave this school until the end of the school year forces my departure. And I _will not_ forsake my friends. What you can do, if you wish so badly to save my life—"

Dobby nodded eagerly, leaning forwards, as if spellbound. "Dobby. Tell me what you know of the Chamber of Secrets."

Dobby wilted. "Dobby cannot. A house-elf is bound by his bonds of servitude, Master Harry Potter, sir. We can't reveal our Masters' secrets. Dobby wishes that he could help Master Harry Potter, sir, but—"

"Peace, Dobby. I shall have to find that out on my own; very well. Can you tell me who your masters are?" Harry asked, raising his right hand to look at it. It looked as if it had some bones in it, now, at least. But perhaps Lockhart hadn't gotten rid of those.

Dobby drooped again.

"Dobby is a bad elf. Dobby is a very bad elf. All he can say is that his masters—his masters are _bad dark wizards_! Oh, no! Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

Harry recognised the signs, and, reaching out, he grabbed hold of Dobby's ankle before he could race off to find something to bang his head into.

"_Peace_, Dobby," he said, again.

"Dobby spoke ill of his masters, sir! Dobby must be punished."

"You didn't really say anything bad, though. I'm sure they'd be flattered to be called 'dark'."

"Masters would be in trouble with the Ministry if they knew what Master is doing. We would all be in trouble."

"Is there anything you _can_ tell me, Dobby?" he asked, attempting a reassuring, soothing voice. He had plenty of practice trying to calm Hermione down, after all. Might as well make use of it.

"Well…well, Dobby knows…Dobby must go now! Good luck, Master Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby said, and he abruptly disappeared. That must be how he came to and from Privet Drive, too. Harry didn't think more of it than that. He wouldn't get Hermione's lecture about how you couldn't apparate or disapparate from Hogwarts until next year.

But why had he disappeared?

The answer came only a few seconds later, the cause of the abruptness of Dobby's disappearance. Dumbledore entered the room, along with McGonagall, not yet ready for bed. Between them stood a stretcher of sorts, and Harry had a sinking feeling. He felt the disturbance in the air as Madam Pomfrey rushed past him to see who had entered the ward now.

"Can it be…another petrification?" he heard her mutter, despite how low her voice was (out of courtesy to him, who was supposed to be sleeping, perhaps?).

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid so. Still…at first, I feared the worst. It is a good thing I happened to stumble into him when I had a sudden hankering for a glass of water before bed…."

"We think he was trying to sneak in to see Potter," McGonagall sniffed, as if this action were obviously foolhardy and dangerous at such a time. Harry's heart might have briefly stopped. Whom did he know of, who would take such risks to visit him—sneaking out after curfew was bad enough (on account of Filch and Peeves), and although they didn't know that there was a predator around (probably, he tried to remember Dumbledore's explanation on November First as to what had caused Mrs. Norris's state)?

And beneath that sense of foreboding, a twinge of guilt, despite the injustice of accusation: Had Harry been awake, he wondered, would he have heard the voice, again?

"Who is it?" asked Madam Pomfrey, bending over to glance at him, whoever was on the stretcher. Harry dared to breathe again, certain that she would have recognised either of his two friends on sight. And she had said _he_, so Hermione was off the list, anyway. Still, there was Neville to consider…and Dean…. Harry, with everyone facing away from him, dared to sit up, and peer across the room to where the body still lay on the stretcher.

He swallowed, hard, sitting back abruptly. Someone he recognised, indeed. Colin Creevey, clutching his camera, even now. Part of him was relieved, glad it was a pest like Creevey, and not someone he cared about—not Ron, or Hermione. That made him feel even worse. Creevey was so annoying with his incessant hero-worship, and his stalking…but he didn't deserve to be turned to stone.

"Do you suppose that he got a picture of his attacker?" asked McGonagall, voice still stiff with disapproval, but milder than he had ever heard it, as she stared down at Colin, who, after all, was one of her own students, one of her charges, one whom she had failed to protect. Harry knew how that felt.

In response, Dumbledore prised the camera out of Colin's now solid grip, gently, gently….

He opened up the back of the camera, where the film could be inserted, wound, or removed, and the film burnt to ashes even as he pulled out the spool.

"Good gracious, Albus!" McGonagall cried, sounding shocked, and her voice rather louder than it should have been. "What could do _that_? Just what does all this mean? You must have some idea what this means!"

Dumbledore sighed, setting the camera, empty now, back down next to Colin, after closing the door for the film once more.

"It means that the Chamber of Secrets has indeed been opened again," he said, his tone no longer its usual, jovial self.

"But Albus!" protested Madam Pomfrey. "Who could do such a thing?"

"The question is now _who_, but _how_," said Dumbledore, a hint of an edge entering his tone. From what he could see in the dimmed lighting, neither Madam Pomfrey nor Professor McGonagall had any idea what he was talking about.

And Harry didn't much understand either, only…from the way Dumbledore spoke, the Chamber of Secrets must have been opened at some point in his lifetime, before. He knew or suspected who the Heir of Slytherin was, and for whatever reason, believed that he or she…what, did not have an Heir, and was working from afar? Would not have passed on his or her knowledge of how to open the Chamber? What?

Harry found it difficult to get back to sleep, yet again, that night. He had too much to think on, to analyse, and to dwell on.


	39. Wherever You Least Want Him

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Wherever You Least Want Him**

The news of recent petrification of Colin Creevey spread through the school like wildfire, and, hot on its heels, the revelation that, _for whatever reason_, the professors at Hogwarts had decided that it would be a good idea if students knew how to defend themselves. Harry did not much like fighting—he could fight well enough, he conceded, and he did not go _out of his way_ to avoid a confrontation, but he was not filled with battle lust—yet he whole-heartedly approved of this newest development. Anything that would hinder the Heir of Slytherin…and his monster. He, Ron, and Hermione signed up for the class immediately, probably each for very different reasons.

Harry was sure that, sooner or later, the monster would come after him—that seemed to be his new lot in life, having cast aside the old one of being the Dursleys' personal punching bag and scapegoat. Ron would want to get in on the fighting. Hermione just enjoyed learning things. Yes, he thought he'd broken that up correctly.

It was a good plan all together—not only did it help protect the school, but it helped them to bear with the panic running rampant through the school—fortified them, gave them a distraction, something to look forward to. And even Harry was looking forwards to it.

He didn't _need_ the reminder that a suddenly-cheerful Ron gave him that Flitwick had been a renowned, champion dueler in his youth. He remembered well enough from last year. Fingers crossed—or at least a desperate hope that it would be Flitwick, or Dumbledore teaching the class. He was sure that either of them had more than enough experience to direct such an extracurricular class. Dumbledore was on the Chocolate Frog cards for, among other things, his defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald (who must have been the immediate predecessor in wizarding supervillains to Voldemort himself).

Of course, his luck being what it was, this was not how events turned out. Their instructor was not Dumbledore. Nor was it Professor Flitwick. Indeed, they had two instructors, and neither of them were Dumbledore or Flitwick. Instead, they were the very last people he would have chosen to have given him instruction in a duel. Hagrid had been expelled in his third year, but give Hagrid the task, even, over these two: Snape, and, perhaps worse, _Lockhart_.

Harry might, in other circumstances, have been reassured by the number of students who groaned as each professor revealed himself on stage, or the way that the grumbling and groaning renewed itself when Lockhart (seeming oblivious to any lack of enthusiasm on his audience's part) introduced himself, and Professor Snape, "who has graciously accepted the role of secondary instructor—don't worry, folks! You'll still have your professor when I'm done with him!"

Apparently, some people had been hoping that, if they had to be instructed by these two, one of them might at least…_remove_ the other. There was another chorus of groans at this news, louder than the previous wave—Professor Snape was hated by most of the school. Harry caught sight of Draco Malfoy frowning at the widespread hatred of his pet professor. Harry glared at Malfoy, and then swiftly redirected his gaze to the floor. It would be just his luck if he was paired off with Malfoy simply for making eye contact. At least he couldn't be expected to duel the floor…he didn't think. Although, with _Lockhart_ as an instructor….

Why, why, why, why, _why_ Lockhart and Snape? How did they manage to show up in all the wrong places, at all the wrong times?

No, he thought he'd probably skip all subsequent meetings of this club. If, indeed, it _survived_ its first meeting. Perhaps people would be so disappointed that, everyone having the same idea as he himself, there would _be_ no further meetings.

"Now, the first spell we're going to teach you is how to disarm your opponent. After all, an opponent without his wand will have a harder time fighting you…although there is such a thing as wandless magic…."

Harry filed this last bit of information away to think on later. After all, just because Lockhart said it didn't mean that it wasn't true. Was that what accidental magic was—or was that a third category of magic? Was it what he'd been doing at the Dursleys? Perhaps that was all the other magic was…perhaps wands were more than just a conduit—perhaps they changed the makeup of spells, somehow.

But these were thoughts for later. Right now, his focus was, in spite of circumstances, fixed upon the two professors. Just because Snape was a terrible human being didn't mean that he was an incompetent teacher. Of spells.

Oh, whom was he kidding? He probably knew his stuff, but you'd never know it, because he'd go around the room, making all the non-slytherins too miserable to focus. And keep all the secrets of how to actually duel to himself, content to let the (clearly) incompetent Defence professor take charge, perhaps revealing one or two useful spells before fizzling out.

And yet, Harry paid attention anyway, watching as Snape pointed the wand in his right hand directly at Lockhart, a hard glitter in his eyes, crying "_expelliarmus_!". Lockhart flew backwards, landing hard at the end of the makeshift stage erected for just this lesson, his wand flying across the room, where Snape caught it with an ease and boredom that made this all look old hand to him, as if it were so familiar, it wasn't worth mentioning.

Lockhart, to his credit, brushed himself off as he stood, with a little laugh at himself, and said, "Yes, yes, excellent! Well done, Professor Snape!" Then he ruined it by continuing, "Or course, if I had wanted to block it, it would have been all too easy to do so…. You just wave your wand like so, and—"

Lockhart waved his wand in an oddly fluid movement, then dropped it, crying, "ah, sorry, yes, my wand's just a bit excited…", not seeming embarrassed or put out in the slightest. He glanced over at Snape to catch sight of a death glare even _he_ could not mistake for admiration, and Harry felt a twinge of…what, pride, in their (erstwhile?) least favourite professor, who at least was not a fraud, and genuinely knew his subject?

Snape couldn't be aiming to kill—if he had been, Lockhart would be dead by now. Harry found himself disappointed, realising in that moment that, much as he and Snape shared a mutual distaste for one another, _he still rooted for Snape over Lockhart_. This revelation so alarmed him that he almost missed it when Lockhart proposed that they call up students to demonstrate the spell Lockhart had just botched, and the one Snape had just performed seamlessly. And of course, Lockhart being Lockhart, he volunteered _Harry_….

Well, Harry and Neville, but Harry had felt his gut clench the moment Lockhart'd mentioned student demonstration. He'd known he'd be one choice—how often had Lockhart made him perform scenes from one of his appalling works of fiction masquerading as textbooks?

But at least Neville had poor aim. If Harry were to be cast in the role of Lockhart (and he suspected he would be; Lockhart would be unable to resist the chance to further associate their names, and therefore their fames), he would prefer to be matched up against someone who stood little chance of successfully performing the spell. And Neville would have the benefit of hands-on experience, and individual attention.

Naturally, this meant that Snape had to interfere, with a jab at Neville thrown in. And Harry, despite just thinking about Neville's poor aim and…unpromising performance, nevertheless bristled, as he was expected to.

And then, of course, such thoughts were driven from his mind, when Snape suggested Malfoy instead. Yep. That was Snape alright. Malfoy, after all, would never limit himself to that one, hardly innocuous, spell. And he was (Harry grudgingly admitted) far more competent than Neville. Harry prepared to dodge something nasty and unpredictable, squared his shoulders, and, with a glance at his friends (their concern for him was both palpable and gratifying), he ascended the stage, left hand steadying his right, as he suspected that he was even now beginning to tremble with the rage that only the joint duo of Malfoy and Snape seemed able to provoke in him. Thus far.

Lockhart being Lockhart, he either didn't notice, or explained away, the animosity currently making it difficult to breathe in that corner of the room.

"All right, Harry," Lockhart said, coming over to give his orders in Harry's ear. Harry hated receiving orders, but there was little worse in that department than receiving them from an incompetent ignoramus who nevertheless held a position of authority over him. And Lockhart didn't even try to teach him the "counterspell" he'd been "attempting" before Harry and Malfoy were called up. It probably didn't even exist. He had probably hoped that Harry would be able to come up with one on the spot.

"Now, just do as I did, Harry," was all the recommendation or advice Lockhart was willing to offer.

"What, drop your wand?" Harry retorted. This was not quite fair—Lockhart had made a sort of squiggling motion, too—but he felt completely justified; he was _not_ up here by choice, and Lockhart was _always_ fixating on him.

Lockhart ignored him. He tried again. "Professor, I don't suppose you could show me that spell again, first?" he asked, with maximal politeness. Malfoy, across the hall, nodded to Snape's suggestion (which Harry doubted was _expelliarmus_), and sneered at Harry.

"What, scared, Potter?" he asked, tone so thoroughly mocking that Harry clenched his left fist tightly around his right forearm, so rigidly that neither could move.

"_Hardly_," he hissed in return. Rather odd, he might have thought at another time, that Malfoy was the slytherin, and yet he, Harry, was doing the hissing.

Or maybe he wouldn't have. Perhaps that presumed foreknowledge of the coming catastrophe.

When Lockhart remembered Harry's existence, the first thing he did was to instruct the two of them on proper duel form. "First, you bow," said Lockhart. Harry glanced over at Snape, possibly for support, but this was Snape. His expression and posture betrayed nothing.

He inclined his head, three second count, a bow between peers. Malfoy showed him no such courtesy, of course, because he had no respect, and not even the dregs of what might be considered chivalry. But since Harry was borrowing the Asgardian notion of the term….

He was beginning to think that perhaps he had no idea what chivalry was, really, or else all of Asgard, had they gone to Hogwarts, would have been sorted into Gryffindor. Daring? Yes. Nerve? _Of course_. Chivalry? Evidently. But you could have all of those traits, and be also a scholar, or a judge, or a…_traitor_….

He scowled at that thought, and brought his mind back to the present, where Lockhart was still trying to convince Malfoy to observe basic manners. But it was as Harry had said himself, last year: Malfoy had nothing of the sort; his own parents must have realised that trying to instil him with respect for anything he held in low regard was a waste of their time. At last, even Lockhart gave up his insistence that Malfoy observe the niceties of the duel form.

Harry paused, cocking his head. "You really should bow, you know," he said, ignoring Malfoy's answering glare. He made as if he were thinking, removing his left hand from where it clutched his right arm, to tap his chin.

"Ah, I'm terribly sorry. I forgot—in order to bow, you need to actually have a spine. How terribly insensitive of me. I should have remembered that, as a snake, you're an invertebrate. You can hardly be expected to bend what—"

Snape silenced him with a sharp look, but Harry just gave an innocent smile and a wave, as if he had no idea what he might have said wrong, pretending that he didn't hear the laughter from the crowd, those who knew and despised Malfoy (rarely as much as he).

Malfoy frowned, scowled, and then inclined his head slightly, for half a second. Progress. Still, it was the most progress they could expect to make, when it was clear he wouldn't observe any of the rules. At all.

Possibly not even school rules, although it never got that far. Instead, Lockhart moved on, telling them to stand _here_, thus, and then moving to give similar instructions to the other. Harry felt his normal hatred of Malfoy began to settle, in the manner of sediment in still water, into something milder. Possibly the bite of impatience, and boredom. He glanced briefly at the ground, but knew better than to take his eyes off Malfoy for any noticeable length of time. Especially not with Snape whispering in his ear, again.

"And hold your wand down at your side, thus. Be ready to lift your arm when we tell you to begin. That's how it is. Yes, but this is not a real duel. That will do. Now, when I say begin, Mr. Malfoy will cast the Disarming Spell, and then we will switch, and you can disarm Mr. Malfoy, and we will let you go back to your friends. Very well, on the count of three, then."

Harry closed his eyes, for a second, bracing himself. Malfoy, judging by last year's flying lesson, would probably begin on "two". He needed to prepare himself to dodge whatever spell Malfoy actually cast, and he needed to do that, _now_.

Lockhart and Snape stood back on the stage, Lockhart with wand inexplicably drawn, as Snape surveyed the audience with what looked to be profound boredom.

"Alright, then, boys, are you ready? Remember: this is all for show." Yeah, right. "No hard feelings! Now, one…two…_three_!"

It was something of a surprise that Malfoy did, in fact, wait for the count of three to raise his wand, and flick it in a downwards motion, but by then, Harry had already cried, "_expelliarmus_!"

Unfortunately, that was at the same time that Malfoy said, "_sserpenssortia_!" It was impossible to tell, what with Malfoy's drawl, how many 's's there were in that spell, exactly. Two? Four? Six?

Harry's reaction time was slowed by his astonishment that Malfoy had even obeyed the rules, and perhaps a lingering, vain hope that Malfoy would have the decency (and intelligence) to at least keep with it whilst people were watching. Still, the wand flew out of Malfoy's hand, and Harry caught it, ignoring Lockhart's sputtering protestation—something about how this was not what they had planned at all.

_And does a __**battle** __generally__ go according to plan?_ Harry's inner sarcastic voice quipped. He wished it didn't sound so much like Loki.

He was too distracted (he would later claim) by the entire sequence of events, that his mind had to slow down, stop, rewind recent happenings in his mind. Because what had Malfoy's oh-so-fearsome spell _done_? It had no immediately noticeable effects upon his person: no warts, no changes of appearance, no sudden craving for peanuts—not even a jet of light that hit him. Perhaps it was a dud….

And then he noticed movement at his feet—a long, large black snake of some sort, quite possibly magical, and, if he were to guess, poisonous. He watched it slither along the floor towards him, and froze.

Inevitably, his thoughts would lead him into all that research done at the library. But his first reaction was to think of the poor boa constrictor at the zoo, trapped in its cage, estranged from its homeland and kin, alone but for annoying miscreants, the Dudleys and Piers Polkisses of the world, banging upon the glass of its cage. He remembered how friendly the snake had been, pleasant, pleased to find a human who understood it. Not many witches or wizards went to the zoo, it seemed.

It must have been accidental magic that had caused the glass of the cage to disappear, but that small conversation he'd had with the snake…perhaps a fourth category of magic?

He became aware of a flurry of emotions, buffeting him about in a net woven with nails. Confusion, pain, anger, curiosity, fear.

Were they the emotions of the snake? Why would he be able to sense those?

And that was when he remembered the Midgard Serpent, by some accounts, one of Loki's children. The prince of the palace had no children, and yet…perhaps something still bound that one to serpents? Did it bind Harry also, or was there some explanation of which he was unaware?

He realised that he was rather unsteady on his feet, now. He glanced to the side to see Snape standing by, lazily watching the snake's approach, confident despite the two wands Harry was currently holding. He glanced at Malfoy, who seemed a bit put out at the temporary loss of his newest wand, but his sense of accomplishment seemed to outweigh that, judging by the crossed arms, relaxed posture, the _smirk_.

Harry, coming to a decision, glanced down at the snake, remembering the trip to the zoo, this time attempting to make eye contact with it. But before he could, of course, Lockhart, recovering from his shock, rushed forwards, crying,

"Don't worry! I'll take care of that!" He waved his wand, and the snake rose three feet in the air before falling back to the ground with a thud. Harry winced in sympathy. It helped that a jolt of pain lanced along his body, perhaps an echo of the snake's pain, frustration, anger, despair, _fear_—

The snake went slithering off at a good pace, now, oozing through the crowd, desperately seeking for shelter. One of Harry's fellow second years stood in the way, and the snake, full of panic and pain, reared up to bite.

"_Stop!_" Harry cried, jumping off the side of the platform and running off after said snake. "_Don't hurt him!_"

The boy was pale as a ghost, staring between Harry, who gave him a feeble smile that he hoped still provided some comfort, and the snake, which glanced at Harry, who kept his thoughts very calm and mild, and watched as the snake curled up like a coil of rope. Reassured by the presence of one who understood (safe, secure, support, protection), the snake's thoughts and emotions stilled as its body did, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

And then the hufflepuff boy he'd just saved, possibly from poisoning, found his voice.

"You!" he said, pointing at Harry, who was still smiling sort of vaguely. The smile fell at the tone, the vitriol, the fear latent behind the accusation in that voice. "You…you _freak_!" the boy stuttered, and Harry froze, thinking of a thousand different times those words had been followed by pain, loneliness, fear.

Starvation. Harm. Neglect.

And before he could recover, the boy continued, "How—how dare you set a snake on me!" the boy demanded, and Harry frowned. It wasn't he; if anyone were to blame, it was Lockhart. Or Malfoy. Or Snape. He opened his mouth to point out that he'd been trying to _save_ him.

"You're a monster," the boy spat, and Harry flinched, his mind doing an about face, veering off into even more dangerous thoughts. Memories. He thought of Loki, the odd one out, the _changeling child_, as he'd put it himself in his dreams. Always the odd one out, but never fully appreciating _how_ different he was until that day.

And that had been it. The catalyst, that set the groundwork for all the sorrows that came after, including Loki's _death_.

He thought of it all, in that brief second—the Chitauri Invasion, New Mexico, the Avengers—and then he turned, and fled, uncaring if it were suspicious. Uncaring if it were rude. Uncaring if Snape took a hundred points. He didn't even realise he'd just shown a weakness.

If anyone called out after him, to _wait_, to _stop_, to _speak to them_, he didn't notice.

He fled, seeking for the solace that came of having a moment to yourself, to think, to plan, to analyse, to calm down, with no one watching. To _break down_ with no one the wiser.

He leant against the wall of the door leading to the Gryffindor Tower, wondering how he'd gotten there so quickly. His breathing was shaky, but he didn't know whether to be furious (indignant), frightened, or just _hurt_, at the accusation, at the fact that anyone at Hogwarts, even in the passion of the moment, could think so little of him.

A noise. He stilled himself as completely as he could, trying to be a human chameleon, pretending he wasn't even there.

"Harry?" asked a familiar voice. Of course they'd followed him. Of course.

"Leave me be, Ron," he said, his voice too level. Too calm. Ron would never fall for that, now would he?

Sure enough: "Harry, we must talk. You do not yet understand fully the gravity of your situation."

"Come on, Harry…we'll talk in the common room…it should be mostly empty, this time of day, and I found a spell to block noise—"

It didn't matter if the noise was blocked, though, did it? Whatever it was that made this situation dire, it would be all over school the next day. That was just how Hogwarts _was_.

But he slumped, and let Ron and Hermione lead him into Gryffindor Tower. They climbed the stairs into the (empty) common room, and took their seats.

"Let me first say that the entire school does _not_ agree with Finch-Fletchey," Ron said, leaning back, arms folded, in his standard,"thinking" pose. "You might not have noticed how swift Dean, Neville, and Seamus were to come to your defence. Indeed there are those who would have prevented your exit, had those three not detained them. Hermione and I would also have defended you, understand, but we thought it better to take the opportunity to make you aware of your current…predicament."

"What he means, Harry," Hermione cut in, when Ron paused to take a breath. He did not seem to begrudge her. "Well, what he means is: _why didn't you tell us you could speak parseltongue_? I mean, speak to _snakes_?"

Harry shrugged, uncertain, still, why this was a "predicament". "I only did the once, before. There was a boa constrictor at a zoo—I'd never been before, and he was a very nice snake. Told me he'd never even _been_ to Brazil—"

"A boa constrictor told you that it had never been to Brazil?" asked Ron, sounding a bit nonplussed at the current course of the conversation.

"I mean, why does it matter? It's innocuous, and I bet lots of people can do it—"

He paused, seeing Hermione shaking her head, and Ron resting his head in _his_ hands.

"Oh, no, I believe you will find that the ability is quite rare," said Ron, glancing up at Harry with an expression alarmingly like pity. Harry _hated_ pity.

"It matters, Harry," Hermione continued, voice bracing, as if what she were about to say pained even her. Harry had a sinking feeling. "It matters because the last known parselmouth is Salazar Slytherin himself. That's why his is the house of the snakes."

And that meant…. "People will think I'm his descendant," he said, understanding boring its way through the maze recent events had made of his thoughts. "His _heir_."

Silence for a moment. Harry had to break it. "But that's ridiculous! I can't be his heir. Just because I speak this '_parseltongue_'…."

"I think you'll find that hard to prove," Hermione retorted, voice grim. "After all, he lived over a thousand years ago. For all we know, you could be."

Well, _that_ complicated things.


	40. The Outcasts of Gryffindor

**Chapter Forty: The Outcasts of Gryffindor**

Harry couldn't help endless reflection upon the events at the dueling club, the next day. Again and again, he turned over the events in his mind, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, what he had done wrong. He analysed his own motivations: why had he fled? That made him look suspicious, as if he had something to hide.

But in that moment…he hadn't known _what_ he would do. Would he lash out at the hufflepuff ingrate who had dared to call him a monster? Was it an offended dignity, wounded pride, that had forced him to leave before he hurt someone? Was it the sense that perhaps the boy had inadvertently invoked the madness? Or was it what he suspected it was: a learnt reaction from years of living with the Dursleys. Insult is here, and pain is never far behind that. Fight or flight. You can't fight, and therefore…_flee_.

Did that make him a coward? But the fact was, the thought of pain, as he'd noticed before, was now inextricably connected to Thanos. It was all tied into a frustrating knot. All arrows seemed to point back to Loki's torture at the hands of Thanos, however. Both what had precipitated those events—that first cause—or the effects. One way or another, he was driven by a need not to examine that possible past too closely. The strength of a completely reasonable desire to reject it all.

Such thoughts meant he would have been in a…_difficult_ mood, even had the school not, as a whole, turned on him.

Already, true to form, word had spread throughout the school—_Potter is a parselmouth_—by lunch. People who had previously been, if not overly friendly, at the very least tolerant, started avoiding him, casting suspicious glances in his direction if he ever even came close. Most of these were hufflepuffs, which was the house most saturated with muggleborns. It was…disheartening.

Perhaps to take his mind off things, Hermione brought them up to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which, as it turned out, was the place where the message had first appeared. Indeed, you could still see it clearly shining on the wall.

"Since you are now the focus of the school's suspicion _again_," she shook her head, disgusted, "it doesn't matter if we show up here to investigate a little. Perhaps, if we can figure out who _is_ the heir…."

She did not voice her suspicions that the heir was Malfoy again, but he knew that she was thinking it. "And also… I read over the recipe for Polyjuice Potion, which takes a month to brew, and I thought: 'where better to brew it than here, the bathroom where no one willingly goes'. You just have to find a way to make Myrtle keep her mouth shut…."

The water had been cleaned up, naturally, from that night, but, despite being the middle of the day, the corridor looked much as it had then. Sunlight streamed in feebly through a window set high into the wall. illuming a small area of the corridor, its range small, as if this corridor defied light. A trail of spiders climbed up the wall, out from the window. He blinked. Single file. That was a bit weird.

He glanced at Ron, who had yet to notice the spiders, and then turned to Hermione.

"Hermione! Look at this! Have you ever seen spiders behave…thus?"

Hermione did not remember Ron's arachnophobia (had she been there when he'd made his confession? Harry couldn't recall), or, in her excitement, temporarily overlooked it, calling Ron over. At the word "spiders", he drew back. Then, he glanced at Harry, glanced at Hermione, and then straightened up, marching over to the window as a man might to the gallows. Harry suppressed a smile, shaking his head.

"I am…not in the habit of watching spiders," he reminded Hermione, gently.

"Oh! I forgot! " she cried, hand flying to her mouth. "I'm sorry, Ron!"

"This is more important," Ron said mildly, glancing at her, and then back at the spiders. He seemed…resigned. "No. I have never seen spiders behave in such a way before, that I have noticed. They seem very…focused."

Focused probably was the word, but it wasn't of any use to them. The spiders had a goal, but that told them nothing.

"I suppose we couldn't expect anything…and perhaps it was a coincidence that the first petrification occurred here. I wish we knew where Creevey was found…."

Hermione shouldn't sound so disappointed.

Hermione took stock of the premises with a practiced eye, and then emerged to where the boys stood guard at the entrance, waiting for her to finish her inspection.

"You know," she said, sounding vaguely amused, "you two are going to have to come in here to help me with the potion. I can hardly follow all the instructions all on my own—I'll need someone to help me chop fresh ingredients…and such. You might as well come in and have a look around…Myrtle's not here. But Harry is probably our best bet for getting on her good side. He's good with people."

Harry suddenly remembered the summer he'd spent at The Burrow, how he'd tormented Ginny until she'd cried.

"…Perhaps not," he said, scuffing his feet. "Ask Ginny. I think I'm horrible with girls."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Really? I've never heard Parvati or Lavender have a bad word to say about you, and you've always been kind to me. And I saw how you managed Myrtle at the Deathday Party. Did much better than anyone I've ever _seen_ before. I think she didn't quite completely disapprove of you. Before I saw that, I would have said that was impossible. If you just treat her with the same…respect? I'm sure she'd listen to you…."

"But Ginny—" he began again, as Ron looked on, with folded arms, and raised eyebrows.

"Perhaps Ginny is the exception to the rule," Hermione said, with a small smile that Harry couldn't understand. He dismissed it as unimportant.

"I shall do my best," he said.

And somehow, he and Ron found themselves entering the rather ordinary-looking bathroom after Hermione. It was, in fact, a completely unremarkable-looking bathroom, exactly alike to the one in which they'd saved Hermione from a troll last year. She'd come a long way since then. He had to hand it to her.

"…It's a bathroom," he said. There was nothing else that could be said.

"Myrtle floods it sometimes," Hermione said. "Be sure to wear your thicker shoes for this. And I know it's rather dingy, but…."

Sanitary. He hoped. This bathroom had an out-of-order sign on it, but it looked despite that rather well-kept.

They were in there for only a minute or so before they retreated back into the corridor. Harry let out a deep breath, as if he'd held it the entire time he'd been in the bathroom.

Well, at least Hermione was smiling.

* * *

The next step was to steal ingredients from Snape's personal store. Naturally, this would have to be done during potions class—when else would they have anything like justification for their presence (plausible deniability). Harry prepared for the coming task with due diligence and forethought. He knew the weakest part of the plan was the expectation that Ron would somehow be able to feign innocence and ignorance of the entire event, when he was acting…_guilty_, even now. That would never do.

When class began, he stationed a jar of frog spleens just near enough that he could accidentally knock into it, and near enough the edge of the table that it could fall to the floor and break. Ron was too busy fretting over The Plan to notice, which was just as well, probably.

He'd anticipated being somewhat…_alarmed_ at the loud noise of the firework exploding in Goyle's cauldron, but had underestimated the effect it would have on him. Loud noise: impending violence, either way. War. Perhaps. But more likely, the heavy pudgy fist of a man whose girth was _almost_ all fat. Blows from that hand were merciless and harsh, and hurt for days….

Or it could be Aunt Petunia, the sharp meeting of bony hand with wooden door the signal that the day's miseries were about to begin.

He didn't notice knocking the jar to the floor, didn't quite hear it break. He didn't see the swelling solution splatter across the room. He barely noticed Snape speak, in his lowest, deadliest voice, as he fished out the still sparking firework.

"When I discover who did this, I will personally see that he is expelled."

Snape's eyes swept the room as he spoke, but by the end, they'd found and settled upon Harry. The accusation was clear in his look. Harry did not make eye contact. He looked down at the floor, noticing the spilt jar, the shards of glass, and grabbed a rag, muttering a quiet "_reparo_" to clear up the broken glass. Much safer than in a muggle home. Much safer than all the times he'd broken glass at the Dursleys.

"What is the matter with Potter?" snapped Snape, betraying his own hidden prejudice, the assumption that Harry was at fault. He dragged his mind into the situation at hand. Ron turned away from the fiasco currently surrounding Snape to glance at Harry, who would never admit after that he _was_ pale and shaking.

"Harry," Ron said. Harry flinched. Too soon. Ron looked away from Harry, meeting Snape's gaze. "That loud noise, it must have disturbed him. He doesn't do well with such loud noise. And I think he might be less…adaptable than usual, owing to the current state of this school."

It had been a bit of a sacrifice, but it was worth it. Hermione stealing potions ingredients was not the thought at the forefront of Ron's mind. He could answer Snape's questions, and even if—as Harry had read there were such—Snape was one of those wizards who could read minds, he would glean little information not directly pertinent to Harry's welfare.

"I broke the jar of frog spleens. I'm sorry; I'll replace them, I promise," he said, almost hyperventilating, still half at Number Four.

Ron, in response, joined him on the floor, and began to assist him cleaning them up. "I am more concerned about _you_," he confessed. "I had not realised—"

"I'll be fine," Harry cut in. "Just…just give me a moment. I just…it made me think of Privet Drive. But I think you're right. It's not just the noise; it's everything _else_. All the tension throughout school because of the monster loose and petrifying people, and the way the whole school except Gryffindor is shunning me now…."

"We shall always be on your side, Hermione and I," Ron vowed, and then blinked several times, turning back to watch Snape, currently more than occupied with handing out antidotes. Ron realised that he'd forgotten what Hermione was doing. Harry saw the dawning realisation cross his face, and his own mouth tried to quirk into a smile, despite that he was still all nerves, shaking, and faint as if he'd spent seven days in the cupboard—

He shook his head, grimacing, but nodded to Ron. _Yes_, he silently said. _I did that on purpose. Aren't you proud of me_?

Since when was _that_ one of his concerns? Again, a stirring suspicion. Ron cast in the role of the older brother, and Harry had, unthinking, followed the script. But at least dwelling on such ominous thoughts kept him away from Number Four, kept him aware enough to notice Hermione return from the storeroom, out of the corner of his eye. Distracted him enough that he could nod and smile at her as if nothing were wrong, before turning to Ron with the silent plea that he not tell Hermione of his recent minor breakdown.

He would not, Harry was sure. He wondered if Thor would have kept silence for Loki, had Loki ever revealed such shameful weakness. He decided he probably wouldn't have.

* * *

This success was one of the few bright points of the current phase of the year. Christmas was coming, and Harry was already as prepared for it as he was ever going to be. He still hadn't given much thought as to what he believed—he'd quite deliberately shunned thinking of such, as a matter of fact.

Hogwarts—the other two houses, at least—got thoroughly into the Christmas spirit a bit early by shunning Harry and assuming he was Slytherin's Heir, out to slaughter the muggleborns.

Fred and George found this idea amusing, and teased Harry about it incessantly. He tried to laugh at their jokes, but the hufflepuff barbs were biting into a thorny problem a bit too close to his heart, and he wished that everyone, especially the Twins, would just not mention it again.

Of course, Percy was fussing endlessly over Ginny, thinking that her unusual pallor and fatigue were signs of fever, instead of distress. It was pretty obvious that she was actually concerned about all the muggleborns who were potential victims (foodstuff?) for the monster of Slytherin. That did not stop Percy from forcing a "Pepper Up Potion" down her throat, which made smoke come out her ears, and generally brought _up_ her temperature, but did nothing to quell her general listless misery. Harry felt for her, despite his current renewed status of Hogwarts Pariah.

One of the definite downsides of being this sort of pariah—it had taken him a while to realise that his ostracism this year was different from last—was that, as he was under suspicion of criminal conduct, those around him tended to keep at least one wary eye on him at all times, lest he do something suspicious or threatening in any way. At least last year, his unpersoning had allowed him to go places other people could not. It was only his knowledge of how not to stand out, how to go about undetected, minimising his presence in any given location, that enabled him to sneak off with Hermione and Ron to work on the Polyjuice Potion, say. Which was itself, in addition to the sudden hostility of the students of Hogwarts, cutting into his ability to practice the _other magic_.

At least the boys in his house in his year all stood by him—Neville, Dean, and Seamus stood up for him against the rest of the school. He even caught Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil , who were usually quite mild-mannered, glaring at a couple of the more vocal ravenclaw detractors. Padma Patil, perhaps because Parvati was her twin, and she trusted her sister's instincts, was one of the few ravenclaws on his side. At least, in _their_ year. With few classes together, and little interaction between houses outside of classes (as each house had its own table in the Great Hall), it was rather difficult to tell what anyone outside of both his year and house felt about any of this.

The quidditch team clearly trusted his innocence, which was something, but the next match of the year was not until the next semester. Wood was giving them a break, but he was civil if he ever encountered Harry in the hall, or common room.

No, the problem was mostly the _other_ houses. Specifically, Hufflepuff. They had Herbology with the hufflepuffs, and Harry usually considered himself on good terms with the members of that house. However, Justin Finch-Fletchey, whom he'd saved from the panicked snake, was now actively shunning him, and Justin's best friends (or most common companions), a girl with two blonde pigtails named Hannah Abbott, and a rather self-important boy named Ernie (short for Ernest, perhaps?) Macmillan watched Harry's every move with overt suspicion. It was rather trying, and made Herbology a rather tedious prospect—like a second Potions class, and that was bad enough, Snape being what he was. But hey, at least Harry had reclaimed his rightful place as Hogwarts's most mistrusted student.

And there was that older hufflepuff boy (a prefect? He was the seeker on the hufflepuff team) who gently corrected students he found badmouthing Harry. That was an unexpected kindness.

Harry decided that it was best to explain what had really happened at the dueling club the other day (a disaster so great that it had, indeed, been canceled). If only _he __himself_ understood snake-speech (_parseltongue_, he corrected himself) then it perhaps was reasonable that Finch-Fletchey had not made the connection between the snake's sudden passivity and Harry's order. Or, indeed, known that Harry had given it any orders. Harry was willing to be generous when judging their suspicion. You would think that they'd know him well enough to know that he wouldn't go around petrifying muggleborns (his best friend being a muggleborn), but…hey! Who knew?

One day when Herbology was canceled on account of rain (weren't they still in…you know, Rainyland, U.K.?), Harry decided to seek out Finch-Fletchey and company, to explain himself. It wasn't that he thought that it would fix everything, but at least if he made his best explanation, he could honestly say he'd tried.

He made the mistake of informing Ron of his plans before leaving the common room, which just meant that Ron insisted upon accompanying him, just in case they attacked (in "self-defence"), which, Harry had to concede, was a good point, and one he hadn't thought of. Mostly because it was such a stupid thing to do.

Hermione decided that she wanted to go to the library, and that "when the portrait door is already open" was as good a time as any to go. The three of them stepped out together, and Hermione struck out on her own shortly thereafter, weaving her way past students, making for the library in a thoughtless dance, too fixated upon her goal to even notice.

Harry and Ron also arrived at the library, about fifteen minutes later. This was after they'd wandered the usual indoor hangouts looking for that other trio, and hadn't found them.

To be fair, they knew of few established hideouts. They hung out at Hagrid's cabin often enough, but that was only they. Perhaps most people used the regular assortment of old, abandoned classrooms. There was hardly time to check _all_ of these, however. And they didn't even know where the dormitories of any of the houses but gryffindor were. (They'd best find that out before Hermione finished her potion; Harry sensed a week of hiding under the invisibility cloak in his near future.) He'd just have to hope….

And sure enough, they were secreted away in a corner of the library, leaning heads close together to make as little noise as possible. Perhaps they hadn't seen Hermione arrive, and perhaps she was far enough away not to hear their conversation. (Harry was well aware that his hearing was freakishly good, thank you.) It was the only thing that Harry could think of to explain how they were speaking of him, even in whispers, as they were. Unless Hermione _didn't_ care about him?

He remembered last year, the perils she'd braved miles beneath the school, and chastised himself for doubting her. When Hermione was reading, she noticed little else; everyone knew it.

Justin Finch-Fletchey was a notable absentee amongst the now-duo of Abbott and Macmillan.

"Justin's been worried that he'd be next ever since he told Potter that his name was down for Eton—you don't have to be a pureblood to figure out that that's not a wizarding school, and no one says Potter's dumb. We don't know what the monster is, and so we can't fight it."

"You're sure it's Potter, then?" asked Hannah Abbott, twisting one of her braids around her finger. "He always seems so nice when I pass him in the halls—and in class—"

Macmillan rolled his eyes. "Hannah, come _on_! Didn't you see what I saw, at the Dueling Club? Potter chased the snake after Justin, and it nearly bit his head off—literally! Scared Justin half to death, I tell you!

"Look, Hannah, everyone knows that parseltongue is an old curse that runs only in the darkest lineages—Slytherin's the last known speaker. And he must have seemed an okay guy before he went crazy and tried to off the school. I bet Potter's just biding his time…. I mean, the people who bother Potter are the ones getting petrified, right? Everyone hates Mrs. Norris, but Creevey really only bothered Potter—taking pictures of him in the mud after Lockhart botched that spell and all—so, I told Finch-Fletchey to lay low in the dorms, I mean, if Potter's targeting muggleborns—"

Harry glanced at Ron, who had apparently come within earshot, what with how tightly his fists were clenched, and the hard set to his face. Death glare time.

"_Ron_," he hissed. "Calm down."

He wasn't _quite_ to the "set things on fire" stage, but he was clearly very close. Harry pulled away from him, to approach the two of them alone.

"Hello," he said to them, in his friendliest voice. Behind him, he heard Ron facepalm, or something similar; he didn't turn to look. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchey."

In other circumstances, he might have laughed at their expressions, Hannah's eyes wide and horrified, Ernie briefly equally wide-eyed, before he decided to stand his ground, and his eyes narrowed.

"Where Justin is is none of your business, Potter. He's my friend, and I won't let you hurt him—"

"I don't want to _hurt_ him," Harry said, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, that urge was just overpowering. "I only want to explain what happened the other day—at the Dueling Club."

"We all saw what happened!" Ernie began, but Harry cut him off as though that were all he had meant to say.

"Then you saw that after I spoke to the snake, it backed off—"

"I saw you speaking parseltongue at it! You could have been saying anything."

Harry rolled his eyes again. He crossed his arms, and stared Macmillan down. "Your closed mind is not my fault. Will you pass my message, then, that I was only trying to save him from that snake?"

He decided not to point out that the snake was only going to attack because it was in pain, and felt cornered. Cornered animals bite.

"I don't believe you. Everyone knows you hate muggles. And by the way, I'm a halfblood. My family—," he said, thrusting his chin into the air in what he seemed to think was a gesture of defiance. It just made him look rather silly. Harry had to try hard not to laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"I don't _care_ about your blood status!" Harry said, and then winced at his own word choice, combined with his vehemence. Then he shook his head, as Macmillan puffed up his chest, saying,

"That's not what I heard. I heard you hate those muggles you live with—"

"It's impossible to live with the Dursleys and _not_ hate them," Harry snapped. "I'd love to see _you_ try it." And there went any sense of humour, or self-restraint.

He glanced at Ron, to see Ron turn to him with a worried frown. Ron the mother hen. Perhaps justified, this once. He took a deep breath, and tried to send Ron a sincere smile.

"Look, Macmillan," he said, with a sigh. "I thought we got on well enough. Have I ever tried to hurt you?"

"You've been biding your time—"

"If you truly believed that, would you be saying it to my face? Even if I _did_ hate _muggles_, has it escaped your notice that _my best friend is a muggleborn_?"

He took a few deep, calming breaths, scanning the stacks for Hermione. "Look, Macmillan, if it were a matter of hatred, I can think of quite a few better candidates whom I'd much rather petrify than Creevey, Finch-Fletchey, or Mrs. Norris. I would think it obvious that Malfoy would be at the top of my list, followed by Lockhart, and then Snape. Because they've all made my life far more miserable than Creevey. And unlike Creevey, I doubt they'll grow out of it. And if I were smarter, and picked targets at random based on blood status, then your statements about Creevey and Mrs. Norris have no relevance."

"I'll believe it if something happens to Granger," Macmillan scoffed, and that was it for Harry. He had to leave before he did something he regretted.

He was mostly unaware of his tagalong as he began his march back to the Gryffindor Tower, vague thought in mind that he might do some studying, if he could find the concentration, or perhaps play chess with Ron. Ron, who was still following him.

The path back from the library cut right past Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which did nothing to improve his spirits. He braced himself for the sight of the writing on the wall again (nothing seemed able to scrub it out, and Filch had tried, as if removing the stain would revive his cat).

But, his luck being what it was, it couldn't be that simple, now could it? He turned the corner, Ron hot on his heels, took a few steps forward, and then realised what he was seeing. A black, hazy sort of mist hung in the hallway, a negative image of the familiar face of his friend, Sir Nick, and, lying nearby….

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" asked Peeves the poltergeist, who, in a manner that would make Lockhart proud, seemed able to show up at the most inopportune of times. "What is Potty doing wandering the halls during—"

Peeves gasped, spotting what Harry already had—the petrified Justin, and the oddly frozen Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.

"Run for your lives! Run for your lives!" Peeves cried, melodramatic as always. "Neither human nor ghost is safe!"

"Caught in the act, Potter!" Macmillan crowed, coming up behind Harry. You'd think his first priority would be the petrified Justin Finch-Fletchey, but, hey, who knew? Harry walked over to study Nick more closely, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Poor Sir Nick. He always tried to do right by students, too—even slytherins.

"Sir Nick?" he asked. There was no response. Through the oily blackness that made up Sir Nick's form, Harry could barely discern the mouth open as if about to speak, the eyes wide, the way he was leaning backwards. Everything suggested that the attack had come upon them unawares—and that perhaps they were surprised by the identity of the attacker. Or perhaps of the monster.

He felt a hand grip his upper arm, and he turned back to face Ron, who gave him a tight nod, even as his expression darkened, as he turned to glance over the scene—Macmillan still slandering Harry, Peeves screaming his head off, the two victims, and here came McGonagall and Hagrid.

Harry's heart sank. Anyone knew that Ron was his best friend, and he suspected that those were expected to defend their friends no matter what, regardless of innocence or guilt. In short, he had no alibi, and Ernie could prove that he had been here shortly after Justin was petrified. It did not look good.

"Mr. Macmillan," McGonagall snapped at Ernie Macmillan. "Don't stand there yammering about what you don't know. Make yourself useful, and escort Nick and Finch-Fletchey to the Hospital Wing. Potter, come with me."

"He didn't do it, Professor McGonagall. Harry wouldn't—" Hagrid began, even as Ron was saying,

"Harry is innocent! I can vouchsafe that he—"

"That is quite enough from the both of you. Hagrid, I believe you were headed for the library. Mr. Weasley, this is out of my hands. Dumbledore's orders. You may, however, accompany him to his office, but this is a private meeting. If you are so concerned."

And she stormed off, as she had several times before, leaving Harry to follow her. He glanced at Ron, bowing his head, and shrugged, hurrying after McGonagall. Ron, not inclined to leave him alone after recent events, followed.


	41. Reassurance

**Chapter Forty-One: Reassurance**

Ron was allowed to accompany him into Dumbledore's office, even, as the man himself was not present. Possibly he was checking up on Finch-Fletchey, Sir Nick, Creevey, and Mrs. Norris. Wherever he was, Harry thought, it was both rather rude, and rather pointlessly cruel, to call him up here, and then have him wait, on tenterhooks he would think, for his judgement.

_He can't __**possibly**__ think that I did this_, Harry reminded himself, remembering that not-so-long-ago night when Creevey had been brought into the Hospital Wing. _But he doesn't know that I know that he knows that I'm innocent…unless he can read minds._

_Could_ he read minds? Harry began to fret over this distinct possibility, as Ron stood nearby, his sentinel, as he'd put it last year, guarding the door, and himself fretting over Harry, in silence.

Harry had never, to his knowledge, been to Dumbledore's office before. It was a cosy little place, with a wall covered in snoring portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses, a desk full of what looked to be quite fragile silvery artefacts, a fireplace along a wall, and there, in a cage near the door…a bird of fiery plumage, with drooping, lustreless feathers, and dull black, beady eyes. This must be Dumbledore's pet. Harry hadn't taken him for the sort to have an animal companion, which made this bird's presence of sufficient distraction for him—even before the bird burst into flame.

Ron's gaze snapped to it immediately (_Have you found a kindred spirit, Ron?_ Harry wondered) and he turned to Harry, with a rather wild look in his eyes. He must be thinking, _first Harry is found near where Justin was petrified, and now Dumbledore's pet bird has killed itself near Harry._

Or, perhaps, he was thinking: _Harry, why did you set Dumbledore's pet bird on fire_? But no, surely Ron knew better than that.

"It's alright, Ron," Harry said, leaning closer towards the bird. "I believe this is Dumbledore's pet phoenix—the bird of fire, reborn from its own ashes, it sets itself alight, to be born anew. They're called after the mythical Phoenician bird—"

Ron did not much care for the details of any specific thing…usually. "Then, Dumbledore does not mean to fault you for this, as well?"

"Don't worry, Ron," Harry said.

The door through which they'd recently come opened, and a familiar man, in robes of lilac (a subtle jab at Lockhart, perhaps? Nah) entered, pausing to glance and nod his approval to his pet bird.

"Professor, your bird—!" Ron cried.

"Yes, yes, I've been telling him to get on with it for a while, now. But Fawkes never likes burning days—he thinks it makes him look ugly, and he has quite a deal of pride in his appearance. I'm sorry you had to see him on a burning day, he usually looks quite majestic—"

"_Fawkes_?" repeated Harry, incredulous. He'd heard the story, in school, before coming to Hogwarts, and found it difficult to believe that Dumbledore had the _audacity_…of course, he _had_ been in Gryffindor. "…With an 'o'?"

"With an 'a'," said Dumbledore, and his eyes were twinkling.

Bonfire Night was almost a month ago. Somehow, it seemed fitting that he make the bird Fawkes's acquaintance in the same month.

"After Guy Fawkes?" he confirmed. Dumbledore just sat there twinkling merrily, and Harry despaired of getting any real answer from him.

"Would you care for a lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore, holding out a low, wide bowl filled with individually wrapped candies. The wrappers looked to be of cellophane, which was rather…incongruous, here at the heart of Hogwarts. Were these…perhaps…_muggle_ candies?

"'Lemon drop'?" Harry repeated, cocking his head.

"A kind of muggle sweet I am rather fond of," Dumbledore said, still twinkling. Aha! That cinched it. Harry slowly reached out and took a candy, tore open the wrapper, put it in his mouth, thinking of the lemon pop the Dursleys had been forced to buy him last year, when they'd gone to the zoo. He decided that Dumbledore had a point. These _were_ very good. It put him in a slightly better mood.

Dumbledore turned, holding the bowl out to a silent Ron, who took one himself, with great caution, as if it might bite. Right. He was going to be kicked out now, wasn't he? Harry shook his head, and his mind returned, at last, to more relevant, recent events.

How could he have forgotten, even briefly? And, as if sensing that the conversation was about to shift to more serious matters, Dumbledore turned to Ron.

"Ah, Mr. Weasley. I see you decided to accompany Harry here. Don't worry: he is safe in my hands."

Ron looked down at the floor of the office, which at least was carpeted. That was something, even if the pattern was old and faded, as if it had been laid down in the time of the Founders, and retouched seldom since. Still not the sort of thing to hold anyone's interest for very long.

"Are you requesting that I leave, Professor?" asked Ron, tensing again, wary, on watch. He turned to Harry, as if to ensure that _Harry_ hadn't spontaneously combusted. Turned back to Dumbledore.

"No, no, if Mr. Potter would prefer your company, you may stay. I merely wished to see how he has been…_getting on with_ recent events. Mr. Potter?"

"Are you going to accuse me of petrifying those people, sir?" he asked. "It seems an unlikely coincidence that you called me here just after the recent bout of petrifications. But…yes, please do let Ron stay."

He needed the moral support. Who knew where this conversation might head, into what murky waters? Harry was on edge as it was, a bit shorter-fused than usual, ready to overreact, sometimes even with violence, at the slightest provocation.

The school had turned its back on him—again. Half of his year mates seemed utterly convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Only gryffindor stood by him. Slytherin knew he wasn't the Heir—or seemed to, but took too much sadistic pleasure in his suffering to even try to set the record straight. Not that they would have. Slytherin was the house of seizing opportunities. If Harry now seemed an ideal scapegoat, they would use that.

Of course, it was also possible that some among them, less vocal but still present, were also on his side, quietly working towards his aid, knowing that no good would come of letting the real monster go unchecked. Possible. He didn't have much speech with the slytherins, barring Malfoy and his goons.

All told, Harry, forewarned of the coming disaster, but without the details to _do_ something about it, was in a rather sorry state. It was a fact that he had to ponder: who else would be attacked? If Slytherin despised muggleborns, did he also hate halfbloods? Would anyone who stood up to the monster be petrified?

There was infuriatingly little knowledge of what the people who had been petrified had been doing just prior. It seemed clear that they had been surprised at the attack—taken unawares. Whatever did this was capable of doing so instantaneously, or nearly so.

And that was the end of his knowledge, except for a sneaking suspicion…. He had not heard the voice this time, had had no forewarning, yet, again, the victims had been found outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Was that perhaps the origin of the attacks?

"I do not believe that you are behind these attacks, Harry," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle, as if handling a slippery piece of glass. Drop it, and it might break, to your detriment. But that was about where Harry thought he was, himself; it was difficult to begrudge Dumbledore his caution, even if it felt a bit patronising. "I called you here to see how you were doing. I understand that public opinion can be…fickle. Fame is a difficult burden to bear."

He sighed, glancing down, as if remembering some personal experience, before leaning back in his chair, hands clasped before him. He seemed such a grandfatherly figure…it was hard not to trust him. But Harry's trust was, for one reason and another, harder to earn than that of most children.

"Professor," he said. "Has any progress been made—on finding out how to cure those that have been attacked, or what the culprit is—_anything?"_

Dumbledore lowered his gaze, the twinkle gone from his eyes, expression solemn. Harry took the opportunity to turn to look at Ron, who seemed to feel that it was his place to stay out of this conversation unless directly addressed. Otherwise, Harry was sure, Ron would have answered Dumbledore's question for him.

"Ah, well, it is difficult to discover a cure without knowing precisely what caused their affliction, understand. An ingredient that such restorative draughts have in common is mandrake root, in various forms, and I am afraid the mandrakes you are tending in Professor Sprout's class are the only ones we currently have available. They were difficult enough to obtain. No, we must wait."

There was a moment of silence for those already petrified, and Dumbledore, looking up again, twinkle rekindled behind his glasses, said, "But I think I might ask you whether or not you have noticed anything unusual concerning these incidents. Did anything strange happen just before you found Nick and Finch-Fletchey?"

One thing he had noted to himself already several times was the complete lack of forewarning, and thus there was no hesitation before he shook his head, no need to question whether or not he should mention that voice he had heard, only for the echo of Ron's voice to remind him that _even in the Wizarding World, hearing voices that no one else does is considered…unusual_.

Despite its absence, he couldn't shake the feeling that the two were somehow connected. Perhaps the voice, whatever it was, had been too far distant for Harry to notice, angry as he'd been. Perhaps it had decided to keep its inner narrative to itself. Either way, he had the sense that its was the voice of whatever had petrified the students, Sir Nick, and Mrs. Norris, that he was hearing somewhere within the walls. How, he did not know. Why, was likewise a mystery. But he remembered that it had wanted to kill, and believed that it was fully capable of doing so. Perhaps he should tell Dumbledore. But….

Suppose the voice _were_ only in his own mind? He would hate to lose what little respect Dumbledore had for him. He would deal with this problem as he did all others. Alone.

Or was that more rightly: with the assistance of Ron and Hermione? He thought of Hermione's Polyjuice Potion, currently brewing in that self-same bathroom. He thought of Draco Malfoy's jeers that _you'll be next, mudbloods_. He remembered that he'd become again the pariah of the school. He thought of Dobby's two warnings, how he had closed the entrance to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, sent the bludger after him, stalked him to the Hospital Wing. His head snapped up.

He could feel Ron tense where he stood guard nearby. By now, he must associate that particular response with nothing good. Poor Ron.

"There was a house-elf who came to warn me that these attacks would happen, before I ever started at Hogwarts. At first, I dismissed it as a mere practical joke by…someone. But then he went on to close the barrier wall leading to Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, sir, and sent that bludger after me. And then made a special trip to tell me all this, that he preferred me 'grievously injured' to dead. He knew that all this was going to happen. He said something about his masters…that they'd planned it, somehow. How, I don't know. Is there some way to find out to which family 'Dobby' belongs?"

Dumbledore sighed, expression downcast again. Ron turned to look at him, as if disbelieving that that was Harry's big plan. Well, Harry wasn't going to tell him about hearing the voices, or Hermione's attempts to subvert wizarding law, now was he?

"Alas, Harry, even if we _could_ find the house-elf, I'm afraid that his testimony would count for little in wizarding law, and it is well-known that house-elves are forbidden, bound by magic, not to reveal their masters' secrets. That Dobby was able to impart even such knowledge as he did is incredible."

Harry huffed. "That's it? There's no way to learn anything more from him?"

"No, and it is likely best for him, safest for him, if we do not reveal that he has done anything his masters might find… objectionable. While his methods leave something to be desired, it appears that his aim was to protect you. The least we can do in return is to keep silence, and not to reveal that he has gone against his masters' orders. Nevertheless, thank you for telling me of these matters. Is there anything else you wish to share?"

Harry glanced again at Ron, if only for a second, reconsidering the merits of sharing what he knew of the mysterious voice in the walls in light of this new dead end. But he trusted Ron's judgement.

"No, sir. Nothing at all."

* * *

"…and that is why I missed our meeting, last month," Harry said, having just finished recounting the long tale of what, precisely, had occurred on Hallowe'en.

Lily Evans stared at the fire burning merrily in the fireplace. It appeared to be the location in which to deliver bad news, and to tell long tales (that were nevertheless true). Harry was only leaning forwards slightly, watching the flames, wondering if they could burn him, wondering if those injuries would somehow carry over into the real world. Somehow, he doubted that either were true.

"I apologise. I _had_ been looking forward to that meeting all day. Alas, it was not to be. Do you agree with what Ron and Hermione said? Was what I did wrong, do you suppose?"

"Your intentions were true, and you did her no lasting harm. You knew what you were doing. As long as you yourself question whether or not your actions are justified, I would not worry overmuch about the weight of a single mistake. You have had little enough of guidance."

Harry looked away from both the fireplace and Lily. "But more has happened since. I have but little time in which to explain this to you, to ask you for your advice, which I have been needing these past two months. I need to discover what manner of beast can both petrify and kill, Mother. And I need to discover how it may be controlled, that I might discover who is controlling it. Perhaps, if I but found the creature…."

He realised that he was thinking aloud, paused, and, with what might almost be considered a smirk, said, "Hermione believes that it is Malfoy, but then, she thought Professor Snape was trying to kill me last year. She is attempting to brew a difficult potion called the Polyjuice Potion. Only yesterday she took Ron and me aside to give us instructions on how we were to obtain the samples of 'whomever we wished to turn into'. Something about chocolate cakes laced with sleeping draught.

"And when I asked her what _she_ would do for _her_ sample, she held up a hair, saying that she'd taken it from the robe of the slytherin girl whom Professor Snape would have had her duel, had she not followed me. I pointed out to her that she couldn't be sure that the hair was from that same slytherin 'what if she had a boyfriend?', I asked.

"Regardless, Malfoy has three constant admirers: his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, and his girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. For anyone else not in authority to be asking such questions in such a House as Slytherin…it might be suspicious. Hermione did not appreciate my pointing out flaws in her plan. I would think she would be grateful."

Lily was shaking her head. "Is Polyjuice Potion no longer considered illegal to brew or to use?" she asked, voice mild. His smirk spread into a grin.

"She _is_ thirteen," he said. "I doubt they will punish her too harshly, should she succeed. She thinks that Malfoy is to blame, but I know that whoever is petrifying students is not a student himself. Dumbledore indicated in the Hospital Wing that he knew that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before…. Ah, yes, I have yet to tell you of that. I shall just say that, if she succeeds in making this potion, I shall be most impressed. And I doubt that she will suffer any consequences for it."

"And to that end, you will help her as you can. They say that you are the more disobedient of my sons," Lily said, shaking her head, blowing a strand of bright red hair out of her face.

Harry shrugged, in response. Had they met in the waking world, he would have voiced complaints that she spoke as if she had more than just one child—just Harry. But here, in the boundary between dreams and wakefulness, he knew he behaved differently, and, for whatever reason, it did not bother him. He spoke differently, thought differently, behaved differently, and rarely dwelt much upon the subject. He accepted it as part of that ineffable, inexplicable nature of dreams.

"Where is Thor, Mother?" he asked, on that note. He made a point of asking her from time to time, unpredictably, out of the blue, as the saying went (which was an apt idiom when speaking of the God of Thunder, anyway).

But, as she had every time before, she just smiled, and said, "Perhaps he is nearer than you think."

And, with a nod, he moved on.

* * *

Hermione's Polyjuice Potion plan went off without a hitch. It also accomplished nothing. All they learnt was that Malfoy was most definitely not the Heir of Slytherin. Harry was kind enough not to ruin her sulk by saying something to the effect of "I told you so". She had, after all, created a perfect Polyjuice Potion (let him never doubt her skill again), not to mention either baked (did Hogwarts have a kitchen?) or otherwise acquired two chocolate cakes, laced them with sleeping draught which must also be of her own brewing, and come up with a plan to drug Crabbe and Goyle, meanwhile somehow acquiring the hair of the Slytherin girls prefect. How, he suspected, would always remain a mystery. Ron was impressed, even, and he rarely understood just how delicate such proceedings were.

What did they learn from the three hours they spent in the Slytherin common room? That no one there seemed to have a clue who the Heir of Slytherin was, although some were ready to scoff at the mere suggestion that it could be Harry Potter. "He's a gryffindor," said one. "Too close to that muggle-loving fool," said another. Harry had gathered that this was what some of them called Dumbledore. He also learnt that some of the slytherins were, indeed, quite as troubled by recent events as Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

"I hope they catch whoever is doing it soon," Zabini said. "People think little enough of us already, without all this pureblood bullocks. My parents weren't even Death Eaters—but that doesn't stop rumours, does it?"

"You hear the school whispering, '"the Heir of Slytherin", "Slytherin's monster", "Slytherin's secret chamber"—why don't they just kick out all the slytherins?'" moaned a blonde girl huddled into a ball in an armchair. "Someone even told Blaise that it must be him, all because of his crazy Mum. How fair is that? And hufflepuffs pride themselves on their so-called 'justice'."

Harry, if he had heard her say those words, would have had to hand it to her, silently. Instead, he caught snippets of the conversation from afar, as the three of them moved farther afield. Only Hermione truly had the liberty to go where she wished—none would dare to question a prefect. She filled them in on what little she heard and learnt, later. It was a good thing she had such a good memory. Indeed, her ability to remember their words verbatim was somewhat suspect.

As a bonus to hanging out with Malfoy (as their rewards) Ron learnt of a secret chamber in the Malfoy's house, beneath the drawing room, where he'd hidden a cache of dark artefacts. Harry was sure that Ron could make good use of that information. The question was: would he? Or was he too honourable?

A true Gryffindor, was Ron. If he hadn't sent word in three days, Harry would for him. Sometimes, these things needed to be done.

* * *

She stood outside the door, as if waiting for permission to come in. As if permission needed to be granted. She thought of another time, when it had been needed, and hadn't been granted, and clutched the book tighter in her hand.

All she had to do, she told herself, was throw it in there. No one ever came here, anyway—no one would ever find it here. And if they did, they'd do the sensible, moral thing, and turn it in to the Lost and Found. They wouldn't keep it. They wouldn't write in it. Not because they were smarter than she, but because they had better manners. They weren't as lonely. Weren't as greedy. Weren't as _bad_. Weren't as _weak_.

Her hands were shaking, aching to throw the curst item as far as she could, but—

Suppose it wasn't enough? Suppose someone else found it, and _was_ foolish enough, had so little respect for private property that they claimed "finders, keepers", and used it themselves?

It wouldn't happen. She'd see to it. All of the spells that might be used to destroy the diary were higher-level spells—not high level, only above her year, but she'd looked some up, anyway, here and there. It was beyond her current ability. All she could do was hope that water would flood the pages with infinite words, and he'd spend the rest of forever reading. Because that was what she was going to do. She was going to flush it down the toilet. No one would fish a diary out of a toilet. Not even Myrtle.

The school would be safe. The diary would be forgotten. It would no longer be able to hurt anyone. _She_ would be safe.

That was what she told herself, then.


	42. Memories of Murder

**Chapter Forty-Two: Memories of Murder**

Without Polyjuice Potion to distract her, Hermione returned to poring over old tomes in the library, hysterical in her attempts to divine what monster might be petrifying the students of Hogwarts, although Hogwarts had so many bestiaries that it was mostly a matter of sheer luck. Harry and Ron left her to it, Harry attempting to come up with an alternate plan.

Meanwhile came Christmas, and Malfoy got in his regular jabs at the Weasley family when Ron offered to help Hagrid with carrying the Christmas trees. A fight might have broken out then and there, but Snape was passing through, and there was nothing of justice about him. Hagrid's defence that "Malfoy was insulting his family" didn't even phase Snape. Did Snape even _have_ family? He remembered Mum mentioning something about a cruel man named Tobias, and a distant mother named Eileen. Perhaps that was why Snape was so unpleasant. He came of unpleasant origins.

Still, Christmas was a tranquil, if more subdued, affair. Ron had, with seemingly great reluctance, gone with the rest of the Weasleys to visit his brother Charlie in Romania. He seemed unsure of what to make of Harry's gift. Harry shrugged, and smiled. He'd never read _King Lear_, only _Hamlet_ and _Romeo and Juliet_, and those in class. Which meant that, when Ron finally got around to reading that, he'd be one ahead of Harry. Oh, well.

And now he knew, too, that Ron's birthday was in March. Dudley had always received an absurd amount of presents for his birthday. Harry would have to see about getting Ron something.

And Hermione, belatedly, if he ever saw her again outside of meals, class, and the library.

At least Ginny looked much better than she had before she left. Romania must have agreed with her: she returned laughing, cheeks flushed, and even had enough cheer to hazard a vague smile in his direction before hurrying away, as if stunned at her own daring.

Getting books on any muggle subject Hermione might miss of ordinary muggle subjects was an obvious choice, and Dean was always open to books about art. Neville might or might not appreciate a reference of folk remedies (but think of his Christmas gift of natural solutions for nightmares last year, and consider this turnabout). All in all, despite his still conflicted opinions about the holiday, Harry thought it had all turned out well.

He wasn't sure why he needed another Weasley sweater, but appreciated the thought, nonetheless. At least there weren't any mystery gifts this year.

He showed Hermione the diary only after Christmas, when the excitement had died down, and he'd tried some of the more obvious tricks on it, with no success. Hermione needed something to distract her—something with which she could make progress.

First, she pulled out a strange magical eraser, scrubbing away at the blank pages, and frowning when no words appeared. Only then did she turn to Harry and demand to know where it came from. He told her.

He explained that he'd been passing Myrtle's bathroom (it was flooded again) when he'd heard crying from within, and, unsure of who it was, had knocked on the door (just in case). After finding out that it was Harry (and Ron, who seemed determined not to let Harry out of his sight; Hermione had been in the library, of course) the voice had agreed that they had come in.

And it had turned out to be Myrtle, this time with a legitimate complaint. She'd been sitting in the plumbing, minding her own business, when someone had tried to flush a book down her toilet of choice. It had passed right through her (a highly unpleasant experience, she claimed), and the toilet had overflowed….

Myrtle had shot out of the plumbing quick as she could, but by then the intruder had gone. The book in question was lying innocently in the miniature lake born of that overflow. Harry had picked it up (ignoring Ron's warning about cursed books that had you speaking in limericks, or that you couldn't put down, and Mr. Weasley's passed-down wisdom about not trusting a thing _if you can't see where it keeps its brain_) and put it in his schoolbag, more to get it out of Myrtle's sight than for any other reason, and said all sorts of reassuring things about how whoever it was probably hadn't meant to hurt Myrtle—didn't she say that she was out of sight at the time; it was an innocent mistake!

He'd spent quite a few minutes calming down Myrtle, and listened with as much patience as he could muster to Myrtle describing how she'd died in here because Olive Hornby, whoever that was, had made fun of her glasses, and then she'd followed the poor girl even to her wedding and haunted her, until she'd been bound to Hogwarts by the Ministry officials, and could no longer leave the grounds.

He hadn't succeeded as well as Ron in the patience department, but he'd made an honest effort; Myrtle could be obnoxious and difficult, but it was clear that, for once, she was genuinely upset, and with cause, and he couldn't help thinking of the callous disregard of Hogwarts's students in general at that moment. So, yes, he'd listened to her, and had tried to limit his insensitive remarks, and Myrtle had eventually cheered up, and then they'd had to hurry to their next class. Hermione remembered that day when he said that, because they'd been late, and she'd chewed them out, after.

But there was something about this diary. After all, it was, to all appearances, a completely ordinary notebook, bought at a muggle bookshop on Vauxhall, and owned by a mysterious T. M. Riddle. But he or she had never written in it, as far as could be told by the naked eye, and yet someone had gone to great lengths to either destroy or hide the diary. Why?

And, as it was, judging by the date on the cover, over fifty years old… where had it been, in the interim? Something about it rang false to Harry, an unscratched itch, that he knew he must humour. So, here he was, with Christmas over, working on the newest mystery.

Hermione looked thoughtful. "You put it in your schoolbag," she said, tapping her chin. "Didn't it ruin your schoolbooks?"

"That was the strangest thing about the book, perhaps," he said. "Although I picked it up from a pool of water, it was completely dry…."

Hermione _hmm_ed to herself, and he wondered if she'd realised anything. But if she had, she didn't share it with him, leaving him to continue to puzzle over the thing. He was sure that it held some sort of clue.

Think. What were diaries, if you broke the concept down? They were records of a day's events—no, records of a person's _memories_ of a day's events. They poured their hearts and souls into the pages, opened their hearts and minds to speak freely the thoughts and feelings they would never voice aloud….

Hmm. No good. Alright. What did you do with a diary? You read it. That was out of the question. You wrote in it.

Could it be that simple?

What if it _were_ curst, and that was why it had been abandoned? Perhaps he shouldn't….

On the other hand, suppose this book held the answers? He'd never get them from Dobby, the only one he knew had them. This book might be his best clue.

But there was something else. No attacks had occurred between the time he'd found the diary, and now. Perhaps it was only because of the holidays—too few students; perhaps the Heir of Slytherin, whoever he was, had also gone on vacation (an alarming thought, somehow). Or, perhaps…nah. It was only a book.

Right?

He didn't know whether he was trying to talk himself out of writing in the book, or into it. He opened his seventh sense to try to understand it better, but it was such a small thing amidst the greater landscape of Hogwarts—mysteries at the edge of his attention kept distracting him, and it was hard to find the book's signature, to look _just_ at it, to delineate where it began and ended. Strangely difficult. As if the book were hiding itself.

He frowned.

Hermione in the library again, the boys dorms deserted, Harry had been up here for the better part of an hour, debating the best course of action.

_To be, or not to be__—that is the question:/Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune…._

Oh, alright. But he'd better not regret this.

With a sigh, he pulled out his quill and inkwell, setting them aside on the sheets. They probably used something like this on Asgard. It was probably why it had taken him so little effort adjusting to using a quill instead of a pen. Another thought for another time. Why was he stalling? Was he…_afraid_?

_"Never trust something if you don't know where it keeps its brain", Dad always says. You know that he works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. If anyone, he would know…._

But was there anyone in this castle more equipped to handle such an artefact than he, possessed as he was of Loki's knowledge, and Loki's memories and experience, the familiarity with the very worst of dangers an artefact could pose…to wrest control from its victim, twist them into—

Ah, that did it. Now it was preferable to try the thing to continuing what he was doing. It was occasionally possible to trick yourself into doing something you didn't want to.

He dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write. What to write was obvious. He'd never kept a diary, but he still knew the heading, what to write on the very first page. _Dear diary,_ he wrote, and waited, about to move on two lines to write something inane, and quite possibly made up, but then he noticed that something was happening. The ink was fading away, greying out, breaking up in a noise-filled pattern of speckles and dots, until in a moment, he couldn't tell he'd written anything at all.

A pause. Harry debated what to do, whether to skip two lines and write some more, or to wait.

He was patient. He decided to wait, resting his quill in the inkwell. He didn't think he'd have to wait long.

Sure enough, soon, a reply emerged, seeming to fade in, to seep in, up through the pages like a stain.

_Hello. Who are you, may I ask, and how did you come by my diary?_

Harry stared at the words, the words that didn't disappear, as they awaited a response. Somehow, he hadn't quite expected for the diary to be able to reply to him. Now, he had to think fast. Tell the truth, or lie? Well, that was obvious. He sat there, thinking hard, for a few seconds. Give a lie, with a grain of truth. Make up a story. Make up an identity. Stick to it.

_My name is James Ericson,_ he wrote, staring for a short time at his writing, which was probably a bit _too_ neat for a second year student. _I'm in Ravenclaw. Fourth year. I found this book in a puddle of water after one of the toilets overflowed. It looked interesting, __especially__ since it wasn't wet. I wanted to figure out why not, __so__ I took it. I figured no one wanted it._

A pause, as the diary assessed his answer. Into that pause, Harry wrote, _Who are you, by the way? You haven't introduced yourself. Are you 'T. M. Riddle'?_

Ravenclaws usually wanted to know everything, didn't they? Harry shrugged. In actuality, people were different. Hermione was in gryffindor, despite decidedly ravenclawish tendencies. He hoped that was enough to cover any ignorance or inconsistencies on his part.

_My name is Tom. It's nice to meet you, James. I'm sorry to hear that the last owner tried to get rid of __this__ diary. While well-intentioned, sometimes, I understand, I can be a bit overbearing. __Hopefully__, you and I will get on better. How may I be of service?_

Harry paused, thinking it over. "Tom", if that was his name, seemed ready enough to accept that the new "owner" was a fourth-year ravenclaw. Harry had had to choose a different house and year, to cover his tracks.

Suppose whoever had thrown away the diary changed their mind, and saw Harry with it. Suppose the diary _were_ the source of the problems this school was facing (how?). Harry resolved to discover this if he could, thinking of a response to Tom's question; he began to write beneath Tom's previous response.

_Perhaps you might answer a few questions_, Harry wrote. _According to the cover, this diary was manufactured over half a century ago. Perhaps in your time more was known concerning the Chamber of Secrets. __Recently__, a few students have been petrified, and no one seems to know who is causing it, or how. What do you know?_

He looked back to Tom's first response as he waited for the ink to sink in, to find that it was fading, same as what he was writing. No need (little need) to turn pages, here.

_The Chamber of Secrets was opened when I went to school here, too!_ Tom wrote, his pristinely neat handwriting slightly more jagged in his haste. (Eagerness?) _Perhaps that is why someone chose to get rid of my diary. I still recall those events, fifty years ago, clear as day. Perhaps they hoped to silence me. But you and I outwitted them, didn't we?_

_When it was opened, a girl was killed, and Hogwarts __nearly__ closed as a result. I caught the killer, and he was expelled…but never sent to prison. They gave me a reward for apprehending him, and urged me to silence._

_Now, it seems, he chooses to misuse his freedom to make a second attempt at his evil work. I feel I __**must**__ speak._

_Thankfully__, I preserved my memories in a more lasting way than ink. Perhaps you would be interested in viewing the night when I caught the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets. With your permission, I could show you the night as I remember it. What do you say, James?_

Harry's interest was piqued, despite himself. He didn't know whether or not to trust Tom, and yet…if Tom were the culprit, would he admit to having any knowledge of the Chamber? Or was this all some sort of lure, a ploy? Harry discovered the painful fact that, while he was good at reading people's faces and voices, he, for whatever reason, could not discern the truth or falsity of their written words. Or was it only _Tom's_ written words?

Suspicion roused, Harry was nonetheless polite, revealing none of his suspicion in his reply (he hoped).

_How does that work? Are there any dangers I should know about before I decide, one way or the other?_

He wondered if he were perhaps being too cautious. But Tom seemed to think this a reasonable precaution, for his reply gave no hint of offence taken.

_It's __completely__ safe—__like__ a pensieve, if you've ever used one of those. You would __simply__ exist as a silent witness to the events taking place, as you were not present at the time. You would see and hear everything that happened around you, but be unable to intervene—it is, after all, only a memory. And when the memory played through to the end, you would return to wherever you are now, with none the wiser._

_I've never used a pensieve…_ Harry wrote, wishing he could ask someone how common they were without raising suspicion. But, surely, if they were _that_ common, he'd have heard of them by now. _I suppose, for the sake of knowing what's going on, and helping those __currently__ suffering, I shall have to take you up on your offer._

And hope this wasn't a colossal mistake, He should have told Ron….

Next thing he knew, he felt as if _he_ were being sucked into the pages of the book. _A mistake, indeed_, he thought. But he had his own means of cutting whatever spells bound him to this book, if any indeed did. If this were a trick, Tom would find that he'd underestimated—

Hogwarts faded in around him, but not Hogwarts as he knew it. He knew the room that he stood in, although he had only been here once before, and it had looked very different, then.

This was the headmaster's office. And yet, the old man sitting behind the desk, reading what looked to be official documents, was not Albus Dumbledore. The dark navy of his robes, if nothing else, would make that plain, or the lack of glasses, his weary worn-out appearance. Something had taken its toll on the man, Harry thought. Perhaps this was relevant to the Chamber of Secrets, after all.

This must be the headmaster in Tom's time, a man he didn't recognise. But where was the student Tom had turned in for the crime? Where was Tom himself, for that matter?

A moment later, his second question was answered by a knock at the door. The old man behind the desk heaved a great sigh, saying, "Enter".

The door swung open immediately, with reluctance, and a boy in his late teens entered. He had neat black hair in an old-fashioned haircut, eyes a darker blue than Dumbledore's, and slightly shabby robes, as if he couldn't afford better, and had got his from the discount bin.

"Ah, Tom. I wanted to speak to you concerning your request to stay here at Hogwarts over the summer. I'm afraid that I have to decline—"

"But, Professor Dippet, sir," he cut in, as if he couldn't help himself. "Hogwarts is my home! You don't know how they treat me at the orphanage—they think I'm a freak! And the war going on—"

"I'm sorry, Tom," the man now known as Professor Dippet said. He did not seem to be paying attention to Tom, who seemed to notice this, with a small frown, glancing down at the papers.

"But, sir—"

"If these attacks continue much longer, Hogwarts will have to close anyway. I think it best that you remain in London, where you are safe—"

Harry saw Tom's fists clench, and recognised the signs. Just how _safe_ was Tom, exactly? What war had Dippet just mentioned? The only wars he could think of relevant to the time frame were the Wizarding War against Grindelwald, and World War II.

_You know, the last time I was in Germany—_ a voice began. Harry shoved it aside. He needed to hear what was going on. He supposed he should have known better than to dwell on muggles and wizards and wars over fifty years old.

"You had best get back to your dorms, Tom," said Dippet, voice feeble and strained, perhaps under the weight of recent events. "These are dangerous times we live in, indeed. Good night."

"Good night, sir," Tom said, with commendable calm.

He went out the door without another word, down the stairs, walking with purpose down the halls, until he was arrested by a man with lurid purple robes and auburn hair.

Harry stared. Despite the different-coloured, shorter beard and hair, the fewer wrinkles in an almost youthful face, and a certain tightness in his features, that Harry had never before seen, Harry knew this man at once. How could he not? The crooked nose, the half-moon spectacles, the gaudy robes…it must be Headmaster Dumbledore. Only, he was not the headmaster yet, was he?

Harry gave a moment's consideration to what this younger Dumbledore's function at Hogwarts was, before devoting all his attention to the conversation between the teacher, and the student.

"Going somewhere, Tom?" asked Dumbledore.

"Professor Dippet wanted to see me, sir. He had bad news for me, and I thought I'd walk it off, some. I do have prefect duties to attend to, as well, regardless of current climate."

Dumbledore's expression fell at the reminder of whatever calamity had recently befallen them.

"Ah, yes, I heard. That poor girl…. Be careful, Tom. We live in dangerous times," he said. "I fear this may be the end of Hogwarts…."

"What if they caught the killer?" Tom asked, voice suddenly far too eager and earnest. Dumbledore's gaze sharpened as it returned to him.

"Do you know something about recent events, Tom? Any knowledge at all as to what we're up against would be invaluable to Headmaster Dippet and me, along with the rest of the staff—"

Tom glanced down at his shoes, and then up again, through his enviably tidy bangs. "No, sir," he said.

_Lie_! said whatever sense or sentiment it was that let Harry tell the difference between the two. Usually, it was a quiet sort of melody in the back of his mind—the flow of conversation settled atop it as water over sediment, unless someone lied, and the sediment were kicked up….

But this was more overt. Either Tom was a bad liar, or he just wasn't in the right frame of mind to make himself sound convincing…or was it something about Dumbledore's presence?

Too many variables. Focus on the problem at hand, please!

Dumbledore, regardless, didn't seem to believe Tom, either. But at last he sighed, as if in defeat, and let Tom pass.

"Don't stay out too late, Tom," he stated. "Headmaster Dippet is right to be cautious. These are dangerous times."

Harry wondered if Dumbledore knew about the orphanage Tom had mentioned, if he knew how Tom was treated, the threats he faced.

Had Tom's childhood perhaps been as his? Was that the reason for his reluctance to return? Didn't it have to be? He still could hear what Tom had said…he too had been mistreated, called a freak, first felt that he belonged at Hogwarts…. He tried to think of his own response, what it would be if Hogwarts were to shut down. He'd be all alone, trapped at the Dursleys. His stomach clenched at the very thought, and he almost missed Dumbledore and Tom saying their goodnights, and going their separate ways.

Tom continued at a brisk pace, turning unfamiliar corners, heading down abandoned, or at least empty, unfamiliar corridors, and tight stairways built into the wall—these weren't moving staircases, but permanent fixtures.

At the bottom of a flight of steps, a corridor began around the corner. Tom lay in wait at the bottom of the steps, around the corner, with a pale wand clutched in his right hand, his attention fixed on the wall, where the light of torches would alert him of anyone coming.

They waited together, Harry almost bored, as he had nothing to do, and no way of knowing how long this would take. Still, he knew he was patient. He kept his focus on the task at hand, and waited with Tom Riddle, despite not knowing what either of them were waiting for.

And then he heard a voice. A painfully familiar voice, if younger and less gravely than he was used to.

It couldn't be.

The words were currently being muffled by both the wall that stood between them, and by (as he saw as the boy rounded the corner) the fact that he was speaking into a box that he was carrying in his arms.

Said boy was about Harry's age, but bulkier and more muscular than Crabbe and Goyle, with familiar, wild black hair, and black eyes currently darting around the room furtively.

Harry groaned. He knew that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. He didn't know which was worse: that Hagrid had been expelled for something he hadn't done; that Tom Riddle's diary was another dead end; that Hagrid _had_ brought a dangerous monster into the school; or that he would have to watch this spectacle unfold nonetheless…and probably he would have to ask Hagrid about it, too, at the first opportunity. Perhaps he knew something, even without knowing that he knew, had seen something he didn't understand, and hadn't known was important.

Harry continued to watch, as Tom stepped out from around the corner, cutting off Hagrid's escape.

"This has gone on long enough, Rubeus. I'm sorry, but I have to turn you in."

"I—what?" asked Hagrid, sounding stunned. Then he understood, and even by the feeble torchlight, he looked pale. "No, see Tom, you don't understand! It wasn't Aragog! He wouldn't! He _couldn't_, see—"

"Come _on_, Rubeus. Give it up, already! I'm sure that you never meant to harm anyone, but the girl's parents will be here tomorrow…they deserve the closure. If we can at least catch the thing that killed—"

"Go on, Aragog!" Hagrid cried, opening the box. Tom raised his wand to fend off the sudden attack, but he wasn't fast enough—something huge, black, and hairy, and with too many legs, bowled him over, and scuttled off down the corridors. An acromantula. Is that where they'd come from?

"He didn't do it, Tom. This is all just a misunderstanding."

Tom pulled himself back to his feet, pushing himself up off the floor, and looking around for any other hidden threats. He gave a regretful sigh, and turned to speak to Hagrid.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Harry was back. His return was so abrupt that it disoriented him, made him dizzy. He slowly realised that he was looking up at the beams supporting the canopy of his bed. He was sprawled in an uncomfortable angle, with his legs still over the side of his bed, and his back flat against the blankets. Where was the diary?

He found it sitting innocently to the side, and picked it up, and then reached for the inkwell he had used before. He should have taken the quill out, and capped the bottle. He shrugged. He hadn't, after all, spilt ink all over.

_Was it any help?_ asked Tom, the message rising up from the still open pages. Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion again, and he considered what to think, whether to ask if he'd ever regretted turning Hagrid in, whether he'd honestly believed….

_Let me think about it for a few weeks,_ he said, as if he were considering the theory that Hagrid were the Heir. _I'll let you know then_.

Of course, that was before they arrested Hagrid, and sent him to Azkaban.


	43. Whatever It Takes

**Chapter Forty-Three: Whatever It Takes**

Harry convinced Ron and Hermione to go and speak to Hagrid the very next day. Of course, in order to do this, he had to explain about Tom Riddle's diary, and endure Ron's reproaches and Hermione's petulance at not figuring out something so obvious on her own. But they agreed to go, and all three of them snuck out of the grounds to visit Hagrid (an easier thing to do when class wasn't in session than when it _was_).

Hagrid was almost as cheerful as usual, and the decrease in his usual good spirits could be explained easily by the continued presence of Gilderoy Lockhart, and of course the resurgence of the Heir of Slytherin, after fifty years. Harry had devoted quite a bit of time to figuring out how to broach the subject to Hagrid. He didn't _quite_ want to mention Tom Riddle, for any number of reasons, including respect for Hagrid's ordeal. Was it all just a misunderstanding, or was Hagrid a victim, albeit less directly, of the Heir of Slytherin, and his monster?

He'd snuck out the night before, gone to the trophy room (where else would you look?), and confirmed the reality of one Tom M. Riddle on the shiny brass trophy. "Special Services to the School", eh? Suspicious in its vagueness, the lack of specificity lent credence to Tom's complaints that the school had essentially tried to buy his silence, which in turn lent credence to his story.

However, given what Harry had himself witnessed—and he wasn't sure whether or not memories could be falsified; he took this with some scepticism—the monster that had gotten Hagrid expelled was an acromantula, which, while terrifying for their own reasons, were _not_ possessed of the ability to petrify people. Last year's encounter with them in the Forbidden Forest during detention had given him sufficient cause to research them. Their only weapons were their mandibles, their venom, and their sheer size.

But the only advice Hagrid would give them, after Harry had carefully woven a path around the topic, was to "follow the spiders". And that came with the promise that they'd only try this if things seemed desperate, and that they came to him first, so that he could guide and protect them. Even Ron did not protest being protected from acromantulai. Because that was the most reasonable place for spiders to be congregating, of course. Normal-sized ones would naturally seek for the protection of their giant brethren.

Harry left Hagrid's in bad spirits. He'd put rather a lot of work into formulating his plan of conversation, and this was all it had yielded. He sighed. He might as well have mentioned Tom Riddle, or made accusations that Hagrid was the Heir of Slytherin. Instead, he'd carefully led into the topic. He'd started by reminding Hagrid about the recent attacks—if he knew any creature capable of petrifying people. He knew far too many.

Then he mentioned the spiders they'd seen fleeing through the window next to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and asked whether or not there was one that all the spiders feared. He'd quietened then, saying that the spiders had become agitated when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before—but he didn't know why. That was admitting to rather more than Harry had expected, but it was possible that, in his state of distress, Hagrid had been less cautious than he'd intended. Of course, Hagrid said plenty of things that he didn't mean to….

He'd carefully skirted around the question of why Hagrid had been expelled, but he'd been tempted to mention Tom Riddle, and his award for Special Services to the School. Still, they'd spent some time ruminating on what Slytherin's monster might be, and who the Heir. If it weren't a Slytherin student, then who? Could it be Lockhart? Snape? An unknown squatter on the premises?

But although Harry learnt some things (such as that _Moaning Myrtle_ was the girl killed by the monster), they'd made little progress.

Perhaps they should ask Myrtle? Harry thought of her usual demeanour, and reconsidered the merit of such. As long as the school was quiet….

But Harry couldn't let the matter go…not when Slytherin's monster was still out there, although it was suspiciously dormant now. He joined Hermione in researching the subject in the library, until school resumed, and quidditch practice with it, and he became rather distracted. As the semester progressed, and there were no more attacks, the Hufflepuffs thawed towards him, returning to their usual civil selves, those who had suspected him, despite Justin Finch-Fletchey still laid out in the Hospital Wing. And all was calm.

And then came Valentine's Day. To say that the day would be forever etched into people's memories…well, it might be true, but not in a complimentary way. Lockhart had covered everything in pink, wearing pink robes himself, and recommending that students seek out Snape to teach them how to make love potions (by this point, of course, they were late enough into the year that even first years knew better than to attempt such, even had they missed Snape's uncontrollable twitching and venomous glare at no one in particular). And Lockhart had also hired a bunch of dwarfs to go around…carrying bows and reciting poetry? …Harry didn't even know if there were words to sufficiently describe his disbelief of the entire thing. He was starting to think Lockhart _was_ an evil mastermind, because who else could turn Hogwarts into…_this_?

It was a nightmare for most of the boys in the school, but a few of the girls were giggly to the verge of hysteria, including Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown…and, surprisingly enough, _Hermione_.

Perhaps she'd spent too long in the library?

Still, he managed to avoid most of the worst of Lockhart's excesses (and was quite pleased with himself for it), and was heading for the library when a dwarf managed to tackle him to the ground as he attempted to flee, to sing him his Valentine.

Singing Valentines. _Ugh_. To make matters worse, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy were nearby to witness his humiliation.

"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad/His hair is as black as a blackboard…" the dwarf sang. Harry glared down at his broken bag. He didn't have that many of them, just the one, so he quietly stuffed everything back in as best he could, and then cast a quiet _reparo_ on it under the dwarf's singing. He conceded only that the dwarf had a good singing voice, if a bit deep for a Valentine that was supposed to be from a child….

"Aww. What a shame, Weasley. Looks like he doesn't like your Valentine," Malfoy said, scorn dripping from his words, a sneer plastered onto his face as he looked down his nose at the youngest Weasley. Ginny drew back into herself, shaking and crying.

That did it. Harry'd made her cry enough over the summer. He frowned, and then stood from where he was trying to better arrange his materials in his schoolbag, to glare at Malfoy. Malfoy's smirk widened, and Harry closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, and then returning a pleasant smile to Malfoy's smirk.

"Sorry, Malfoy, I'm sure you worked very hard on your little Valentine, but I'm not interested. Besides, how would Pansy feel if she knew?" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "I might offer you some advice on how to—"

"Shut it, Potter. I wasn't speaking to you," Malfoy said, his expression turning ugly. "That was _not_ my Valentine, and I have _no_ interest in a blood-traitor like you."

"Then why do you go out of your way to torment me? I only respond to your jeers, and never pick a fight, myself."

Something about his own words tried to strike him in the head, here, but he was too busy, preoccupied with punishing Malfoy for being himself, because when people said that, they assumed "yourself" wasn't anything like a Malfoy.

Where was Ron to hit someone, when you needed him?

"I mean—" he cocked his head at an inquisitive angle, "If I'm beneath your notice—"

"Good Lord, Potter! I hadn't thought the basic niceties of human interaction were outside your knowledge. I 'torment' you because you insulted me first! Don't you know what the word 'enemies' means?"

Harry just smiled in return, and glanced over at Ginny to see if she was any better. She shot him a wide-eyed, hunted look, and he cocked his head at her, brows furrowed, trying to puzzle out the response. Was she…afraid of him? It didn't make sense.

He sighed. He hoped they hadn't undone all the progress they'd made this last summer. But then, it wasn't as if they hung out, or anything. Had he spoken to her at all over the last year? He frowned. He couldn't recall.

Malfoy stormed off under threat of having another wand stolen and broken, and Harry shouldered his bag, and went over to Ginny.

"Sorry about Malfoy," he said. "But if you're upset about the poem…well, if it_ is _yours, and I'm not saying it is, you probably should deliver it yourself, next time, hmm? Only, I don't think those deep voices the dwarfs all seem to have lend themselves to girls' poetry…."

She looked down at her feet, and said nothing.

"Come now, Ginny. Are we no longer on speaking terms? What's wrong?" he asked, trying to be as calm and gentle as possible. He stood before her, reaching out a hand…but he wasn't sure what he would do with it. He let it fall.

"Still nothing? Well, if you ever want to talk, you know where to find me," he said, with another smile. Then he turned, waved, and walked away.

* * *

A week later, the diary of Tom Riddle went missing. And a few weeks after that, the attacks started up again. Yes, Tom Riddle was now considered _definitely_ suspicious.

The latest attack served as something of a breaking point; the time for desperate measures had arrived. At least now almost all of Hufflepuff in his year (there was no convincing Zacharias Smith) now believed in his innocence. All it had cost him was Hermione.

It started out with Gryffindor's second quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Or perhaps before that, when Hermione had been twirling her porridge about with a spoon, only to leap to her feet, crying, "Of course! Why didn't I think of it before?" and make a dash for the door.

"_What_ have you figured out?" Harry asked, with perhaps a slight edge to his voice. The match started early in the morning, because quidditch matches had been known to go on for…a long time. He himself had time to eat breakfast only because he'd elected to get up early for just that purpose. Ron was still a bit groggy, but Harry knew he'd wake up before the match started. Harry was thinking of the match, mostly—the Heir of Slytherin had made no move, unless it were to steal the diary, and trash his corner of the boys dormitories a few weeks prior.

"It's about the monster…oh, don't worry, I'll tell you later, I just have to be sure! I won't miss the match. Be careful. I'll be right back!"

And off she zipped, before even Ron could think of stopping her.

"Wonder what she's figured out," Harry mused. Ron just looked as if he were thinking very hard about something, but Harry knew better than to ask what. Almost certainly, he was just trying to figure out what it was that Hermione had figured out concerning the monster. Or, possibly, what had prompted her epiphany.

Harry did not begrudge her the unplanned excursion to the library. Wishing her luck, he finished his pumpkin juice, and went off to the pitch to change into his team robes. But the match was not to be.

As they were all filing onto the grass, to make the team line-up before the game, Professor McGonagall came striding towards them.

"I'm sorry, everyone!" she announced as she walked. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, today's match—and all subsequent matches—has been canceled. Please return to your dormitories in a peaceful, calm manner, and await further information."

Wood stared at her as if she'd just announced all of this in Dutch…or some other language he didn't speak.

"Mr. Potter," she said. "I must have a word with you. Please, come with me."

_What can I __possibly__ have done this time?_ Harry couldn't help wondering, as if it were a reflex. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron making his way down through the stands, as if he could tell that Harry needed his presence particularly just then. It took him less than a minute to make his way from where he'd been entrenched over to Harry and Professor McGonagall. He looked much more alert (and rather warier) than he had a few minutes ago.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, I think you should come too," McGonagall said, her voice grave, but devoid of reproach. Harry's stomach began to sink, as she began to walk back towards the castle. For once, she explained as they walked—perhaps because she wasn't angry with them, for once.

She waited to begin her explanation, however, until she'd thrown open the double doors, and they'd passed through into the Great Hall, passed through the Great Hall, and were heading down the corridor that led to and from the Hall. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for the both of you. There has been another attack…another _double_ attack."

Harry glanced down at the flagstones of the castle floor. He glanced over at Ron, whose fists were clenched, eyes likewise downcast, and turned to Professor McGonagall.

"Who is it?" Harry asked, even as Ron asked,

"Professor, have you seen Hermione?"

And that confirmed it. They were both thinking the same thing. McGonagall's lips tightened, as if she were about to assign them a week's detention, but….

"Very well, I see that you have figured it out for yourselves. The name of the second victim would hold little significance to you, but—"

She threw open the door to the Hospital Wing, and, with an incoherent cry, Ron seemed almost to simply appear at the bedside of the girl with frizzy brown hair, the one clutching something tight in her grip. There was another girl, with curly brown hair, in a bed nearby, but she was older, and had a ravenclaw prefect's badge pinned to her robes.

Harry trudged towards Hermione, barely glancing at the other victim. _Now, they have gone too far_, said an inner voice that would not be quelled. It cried for _vengeance_, but he had nothing to give it.

Today, he and Ron would go to Hagrid, as soon as they were able, to follow up their most promising lead. Harry was not often moved to great fits of anger, but he could sense it now, bubbling beneath the surface. Was it that Hermione had been harmed, or that he'd just lost one of his few pillars holding him up?

He bent down next to her, gaze fixed upon the hand clutching something tight. She must have found something….

"She was holding this," Professor McGonagall said, holding out a small, round, compact makeup mirror. Despite his resentment of the distraction, he recognised the importance of observing whatever it was that she'd found. Harry stared at it, nonplussed. "I don't suppose either of you knows the significance of it—"

"No, Professor," he said, his voice curt, stating without words that she would get no more from him—at least nothing useful. Her eyebrows rose—she'd seen him in some rather disheartening situations before, but he'd never been _rude_ to her.

Harry's hands clenched into tight fists, and he thought of all those times when he'd lashed out without cause. Now, he _had_ cause, and therefore needed to wait to find out _who was behind this_, before he made a move. In the interim, he would let the need for blood simmer below the surface, let it be that much more vicious the punishment when he finally discovered the culprit. They would know better than to trifle with him….

He knew that pattern of thoughts, recognised them, and, for the first time, he very much did not care. Whatever it took to _avenge_ Hermione. Whatever it took to restore her. He could commit himself to such an undertaking; indeed, he thought it was only to be expected, _required_ of him.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. If you have no more understanding to contribute, I shall leave the two of you to…adjust." And, swiping what looked suspiciously like tears from her eyes, she snuck out of the Hospital Wing to give them privacy.

She missed Harry's bitter laugh, as he glanced back down at Hermione. "Adjust"? This was not something that could be _adjusted_ to. Adjusting meant accepting it, and he refused to do that. This was far from the end.

Had he brought her to this?

So still…not even her chest rising and falling to show that she was still breathing, because she wasn't. She hung suspended in time.

Was this how it had been for Captain America, frozen in the ice? For how long would she remain this way? A thousand irrelevant thoughts drifted across the surface of his mind, senseless observations, some trying to get his attention; a futile endeavour, when one had already latched on, and jealously warded off all others.

What was school to him? What was quidditch? Hermione was his friend, and, dare he say it, he suspected that that was the reason for her current state.

"Whoever did this, they will pay for it. They will regret it, if it is the last thing I do," he announced to no one in particular, put in mind of Ron over a year ago, in the common room, looking down at the drawing Dean had made.

Ron's gaze did not leave Hermione. He reached out to touch her, and recoiled, perhaps at the stillness; perhaps because she was cold as stone to the touch.

Cold as ice.

"I will help. I will do whatever is required," Ron said, his voice quieter than usual, full of that same, quiet gravity.

_Together, then_, Harry thought. Those were good odds, two against one. Or two against two, perhaps, if the real culprit were Tom Riddle, agency masked behind another actor. Harry's fists clenched so tight, he would be surprised if they weren't bleeding.

There was little else to say besides, in that moment. A strange sort of understanding had formed between them, one half-familiar, half-strange. Harry leant back on that sense of familiarity, to let it serve as a guide. First things first, he was required to convinced Hagrid, if he still needed convincing, to guide them through the forest.

Of course, that was not how things turned out.


	44. Take the Left-Hand Path

**Chapter Forty-Four: Take the Left-Hand Path**

Instead of gaining a guide and protector through the Forest, they bore witness to the removal of Hagrid from the grounds, Lucius Malfoy's shining triumph. Harry was disgusted at the display, at the cruel pleasure Malfoy was feeling at this turn of events, at that superior strut. He couldn't look.

Dumbledore accompanied a man Harry didn't know, and Lucius Malfoy, to Hagrid's cabin. There was enough forewarning for Harry and Ron to hide under the invisibility cloak (good thing he'd taken to bringing it everywhere with him, eh?), and then the trio entered. Harry hoped that they hadn't been watching Hagrid's door to see who came and went, or it would be highly suspicious that the two of them had entered, but never left.

They didn't seem to be, however. The man in the pinstripe suit was twirling his hat in his hands—probably a nervous habit.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to come with us, Hagrid. Given recent circumstances, the parents of schoolchildren have written to say that they would feel…reassured…to know that you were no longer on the premises. As you were expelled for committing the crimes before—"

"But where are you taking me?" he asked, voice shaking. "Not—not _Azkaban_?"

"Merely a precaution," said the man with the hat, twirling it ever more vigorously. "It's only for a little while…the school year is almost over."

"I believe I have expressed that Hagrid has my full confidence," said Dumbledore, turning to face the other two. He did not seem to want Hagrid to leave, at least. It was good that someone at least was vouching for Hagrid; Harry wasn't sure he'd have been able to restrain himself, otherwise. Looks like he'd discovered where Malfoy got his insufferable cruelty from.

Lucius Malfoy stood back and watched the show, only the gleam of his eyes betraying his delight at recent events. When the good suffer, the bad rejoice, right?

"Ah, yes. Well, the truth is, I also have a signed decrees from the Board…seems that recent…tragedies have made them lose faith in you…a unanimous decision. I will have to ask you to step down from your position as Headmaster, and leave the grounds."

"No!" Hagrid cried. "You can't make Dumbledore leave the school. I'll bet his presence is the only reason the monster doing this is holding back. There'll be killings next, with Dumbledore gone!"

Harry understood the sentiment, but winced under the cloak. Hagrid sounded as if he were threatening just that, as if he _were_ in control of the monster.

"Certainly I will step aside, if that is what they request of me," said Dumbledore, his voice calm and courteous. "But I think you will find that I have only truly left this school when none remain who are loyal to me."

His eyes seemed to flick to their corner, and Harry held his breath. Did he see them? Or was he, perhaps, powerful enough to sense a certain distortion in the magic, betraying their presence? He'd never bothered to check whether there were any ambient magic in Hagrid's cabin…there'd always been something else weighing heavy on his mind….

"But sir! You can't—"

Dumbledore just smiled benevolently. "Help will always be given at Hogwarts, to those who need it, regardless of whether or not I am here. It is a place of safety, protected from those of ill-intent by long-forgotten magic. The students will be safe.

"Come, Hagrid, the sooner we leave, the sooner we can do something worthwhile here—"Hagrid slumped, and then straightened up, determined, it seemed, to leave with his pride intact, rather than being taken in like a criminal. But he paused in the doorway, and turned his head back to address the empty cabin.

"If anyone wanted to learn the secrets of what's behind all this, the best advice I could give him is to follow the spiders. That will set him right. And someone needs to take care of Fang!"

And with those highly suspicious words, Hagrid stormed out of his own house. Harry's first, rather foolish thought, was that someone indeed needed to look after Hagrid's dog while Hagrid was gone. Then he remembered what Hagrid had said last year: nothing in the forest would harm them as long as he or Fang was with them. And they knew that the acromantulai were the Forest's denizens.

He waited with bated breath for the footsteps to die down, and then threw off the cloak.

"It appears," he said, standing straight and glaring about the room, "that we have a change in plans. I shall bring Fang. We will still go into the Forest tonight. We shall simply need to split up and search different areas, and meet back here before twelve. If I'm not back by then…well, you seem to have your ways of finding me."

And, unclipping Fang's lead from the wall, and attaching it to his collar, he left the house, hands tightly clenched once more, this time against the blatant injustice of it all.

Ron followed.

* * *

After ensuring for at least the third time that Ron would rather that Harry had whatever special protection Fang's mere presence supposedly afforded, Harry gave in. They didn't have forever in which to conduct their search, and the day's events had worn them out rather. Hermione petrified, Hagrid and Dumbledore expelled from Hogwarts, and all this after fretting over a silly quidditch match.

He was, however, wide-awake, as they went their separate ways, plans made to rendezvous in a few hours. Ron didn't have a watch, but he was good at telling time with…apparently no discernable means at all. Harry still had the watch he'd found discarded amongst Dudley's broken playthings. This was neither a plaything nor broken. It might have just been overlooked, but it had served him well thus far, and the Dursleys did not seem to have noticed its absence.

The plan was fairly simple: as they had last year, they would head in opposite directions into the woods, and try to find the acromantulai. Ron clearly had his misgivings about seeking out giant spiders, but apparently the thought of Hermione laid out in the Hospital Wing fortified him, because he made no complaints, merely nodded his assent, and strode off deeper into the woods.

And Harry was alone with a whimpering, cowering Fang. Would he provide any protection at all? It was hard to believe. But he'd brought Fang with him; he might as well see how things went.

He judged how far he was in the woods by the quality of the light overhead—how it filtered through the trees, how well-lit the path before him was. There was no unicorn blood to light the way, as there had been before. But a quiet _lumos_ provided him with enough light that he could easily see where he was going. Pointing it around the forest would do little to warn him of any threats, but it was tempting to do just that, nonetheless.

It seemed to take hours to push his way through—he was taller now than he had been last year, and the branches of the trees were greater obstruction than before, but, more than that, he had no idea how to handle the coming…conversation? How would the acromantulai respond to him? The bestiary entry he'd read had mentioned that older acromantulai were capable of human speech, but, if Aragog had been in the Forbidden Forest since he was small enough to fit into a box…would he ever have learnt?

Perhaps Hagrid often came to visit him, had taught him English over the years. Why send them to speak with the acromantulai if they would be unable to communicate?

Suppose Fang wasn't protection enough? Fang was middle-aged, for a dog. Would the acromantulai really bother to learn the appearance and distinguishing traits of every dog that Hagrid had ever owned? Dogs—especially big dogs, as Fang was—tended to live shorter lives. How many dogs had come and gone in Hagrid's life since Aragog was sent into the Forbidden Forest?

Perhaps he needed to think this through, before he accidentally stumbled upon their lair. He began to build an escape plan. Fire was useful, here, because trees were made of wood, and wood was flammable. But he didn't know what their lair might look like. Nonetheless…he knew plenty of spells for combat. And then, added onto that, was the _other_ kind of magic.

He considered it ominous when his arms and legs began to burn, and silver fire to course through his veins. Mother's love. A warning of coming danger. What was she trying to protect him from, though? Was it, perhaps, the acromantulai, themselves? He remembered Hagrid saying that nothing indigenous to the Forest would harm them if he or Fang was with them… was there an intruder? Was Hagrid wrong?

His guard was up, now, his sixth and seventh senses opened as far as they could be. That took a distracting amount of focus, and it was difficult to do that and to pay attention for signs that Fang sensed danger. But he pressed on, even as Mother's love solidified as armour around him, changing colour to that not-quite-familiar underlit green and black. Anyone who saw him thus would think him a slytherin, for sure.

Suddenly, Fang growled, gaze whipping around a clearing, as the rustling of breaking leaves reached his ears. Last year's foliage, it was already brittle and well-decayed, muffling the sound, somewhat.

Harry's gaze followed Fang's. No warning in his own sixth and seventh senses, but here came a spider the size of Fang. An acromantula. Mentally, he compared the size of it to the size of Hagrid's box. It was bigger, which might mean that it spoke English.

Well, he had to try… except, now the spider was trying to tie him up with thick, ropey webbing. It burnt off whenever it came into contact with his skin or Mother's armour—in other words, whenever it came too close to him. Mother's love was silver fire, after all.

But he did not intend to be brought before their leader as a prisoner. And what of the protection that Fang was supposed to offer? None, after all. It might have been true that they wouldn't harm someone accompanied by Hagrid (for various reasons) but the same could not be said of Fang. That made sense. But it also meant that he and Malfoy (and Malfoy and Ron) had been in greater danger than they had realised, last year.

Ah, well, no help for that now. Time to try to figure out how to go about this.

"Hello, my name is Harry Potter," he said, and internally rolled his eyes at the statement. Somewhat stupid to be introducing yourself even as you formed a shield and carefully catalogued whatever spells you could think of to fight with. He remembered Loki forming daggers, somehow, last year in the battle against Quirrell, but couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how. He'd spent _ages_ of practice trying to figure it out.

"I have no desire to fight you," he said. "I merely wish to speak with your leader, Aragog." The acromantula chittered in response. He held up the shield, and reconsidered the merits of brandishing a weapon. The acromantula said nothing, but it did turn, and scuttle away.

"Go on. Go back to Hagrid's," Harry said, letting go Fang's lead. No use dragging Fang into potential danger, too. He might be alone, against heavy odds, but having to protect Hagrid's dog wouldn't help with that. Belatedly, as he was half-watching Fang turn tail and run, he considered that maybe Aragog would recognise Fang, when this lesser spider did not. But was it worth the risk?

He followed the acromantula through the trees, ducking branches that did not hinder the much shorter acromantula, making his way through progressively denser undergrowth. There did not seem to be a path, which perhaps made sense. Or, perhaps, it was the forest, being its usual self, and defeating all attempts to tame it, even those made by supernatural creatures.

The spider led him into the sylvan equivalent of a cave—a broad opening of trees leading into darkness, where leaves and branches intertwined to block out all light. His sense of foreboding grew tenfold. He remembered that spiders worked best in the dark—were most active at night—and refused to relinquish his _lumos_ spell, although it did little to penetrate the unnatural darkness of the acromantula nest.

"Hello?" he called out. "My name is Harry Potter. Is Aragog, Lord of the Acromantulai, here? Hagrid sent me. He told me that you could answer some questions."

A shadow, dark against even the darkness of the cave, shuffled into view. Harry resisted the urge to increase the amount of light his wand produced.

"Hagrid sent you, you say? Hagrid is an old friend of mine. I owe him a great deal. He raised me and protected me, hatching me from an egg, and has given me everything that I might desire. He even found a mate for me, which I know must have been quite difficult for him. I will answer your questions, friend of Hagrid."

Harry resisted the urge to remind the spider that he had a name. "There's a monster loose in the school, turning people to stone," he said; no sense beating around the bush. His skin was crawling, though whether from that creeping sensation of danger, of eyes upon him, watching him…hungry, or on account of actual spiders, he couldn't tell. "Hagrid set you free when the monster-"

All around him, a chorus of anxious chittering, and Aragog cut him off.

"We do not speak of it! It is a dread creature, indeed, one that has slain many acromantulai such as myself. Fear it! Where the Founder of Slytherin House found such a monstrosity, I neither know nor care! This only will I tell you—it poses no less threat for men than acromantulai, for its venom is powerful beyond all others, and its gaze will turn a man to stone, or kill him…that is how the girl died…Myrtle was her name. Yes, how well I remember. Do you have any more questions for me, friend of Hagrid?"

_Say yes, say yes_, cried whatever voice was warning him of impending danger. But doubtless Aragog could see him better than he could see the spider, and it seemed he also could read expressions. Harry could see some vast shape turn, heading back to its den. A host of giant spiders advanced on him. He understood.

"Hagrid said we would not be harmed!" he cried. "Have you no respect for his wishes?"

The spider king paused in its scuttling. "I respect Hagrid a great deal. I would not harm Hagrid were he to come here, and I have ordered that my children likewise leave him be. But I cannot deny them a meal when it wanders so freely into our midst. Goodbye, friend of Hagrid."

Harry knew that, first of all, he needed to get out of the "cave". There was no point in setting the grove ablaze—there were too many acromantulai. The more of them he killed, the greater the future vendetta against him. He did not want to kill one of Hagrid's friends—by all accounts, the only spider who might be willing to spare him. Had it been Aragog alone, he thought he would have made it out without trouble. It was all the lesser acromantulai—his descendants—that were the problem.

Mother's armour provided some protection, and the silver shield on his arm added to it, but now he needed to take the offensive.

Focus. Desire. Energy. Or, was it better to stick to the spells he knew? He focused hard on the _lumos_ spell currently dimly illuming the clearing-cave. Spiders thrived in the dark. If he could fill the clearing in light….

They squealed, and he could hear sibilant curses directed his way, arachnid hisses of pain, but that did not stall them for long.

Insufficient.

A wall of ice sprang up before him, but it was so thin, it would never last. He retreated, keeping a wary eye behind him. He staggered, feeling the drain of using such a spell, unpracticed, across such a broad area, but knew he had to keep going. Acromantulai threw themselves against his wall, and it cracked, and then almost immediately shattered. But only a few could come through that gap at a time.

He shot familiar spells, _reducto_ and _confringo_ and _stupefy_, meanwhile backing away, trying to increase the distance.

He managed to erect a second wall of ice, this one thicker. He had enough practice that it wasn't draining him as much as he might have expected, and the ice had staying power. The second wall connected to the first, forming a box with four thick sides, and the fourth, thin one, the original wall. He could feel the drain on his reserves, and yet….

He was maintaining two spells, and he'd just used quite a bit of energy in creating his icebox. He'd definitely feel that tomorrow (he wondered when he'd wake up). He was aware that it was adrenaline, first and foremost, that was keeping him moving.

Hoping that Ron somehow avoided the acromantulai altogether, he turned and ran.

* * *

Thor left Harry alone with the greatest misgivings, not knowing just how justified those were. He knew that he didn't trust spiders, ever since that trick the Twins had played on him when he'd been only about two years old. Ron Weasley had been terrified of spiders, to the point of not being able to handle having one in the same room as him, if he spotted it. Ginny had rolled her eyes, and either squashed or removed the inoffensive bugs.

That was before. That dread was muted considerably by the influx of memories. He could work past it, now. He thought he would have learnt it, eventually, anyway, even had he never regained his memories. But, despite all that, it was telling, even to him, that he was willing to brave the spiders' lair for the cause.

And what was the cause? That was a question he didn't think he quite wanted to answer for himself. Yes, he felt the need to protect the entire school (he was a god, and they were up against…well, a monster, at the very least), but it wasn't just the need to protect the innocent at work, here, and he knew it.

Hermione was his friend. She wasn't a relative of any sort, and yet he'd grown attached to her. That was problematic. He had always been the sort who made friends easily, always been the "life of the party" as mortals called it.

That had never been a problem before, but he recognised to himself that it was, here. Mortals lived such short lives, and then they died. But most of them would live past their forties, and wizards, he knew from what Dad had said, were longer-lived than ordinary humans. Than muggles. Someday, he would tell Hermione Granger who he really was, and how would she react to that? Would she feel lied to, betrayed? Would she refuse to speak with him ever again? Had he taken the place of whatever real friends she was meant to have made here at Hogwarts? Was it selfish, to keep Hermione as his friend, when, one way or another, it was bound to end in heartbreak?

He wished that he could ask his brother. He was sure Loki would have had an answer for him, probably laden with amused condescension. But that was in a time before. He was on his own, now. Again, he became keenly aware of all he had lost. Was he being selfish, however? Was selfishness what had brought him here, after all?

He was absorbed in these sorts of thoughts when he suddenly tensed, wary. He'd heard something, but he wasn't sure what it was. A rustling, the shifting of a branch, not caused by wind…. Who knew? But now he was alert, wary, looking around. It might be an acromantula….

It was not. He started, despite himself, and then shook his head out of whatever thoughts it had become lodged in. He'd heard of them, of course, had known that they lived in the Forbidden Forest, even, but he'd never encountered a centaur before. He didn't know how to react to them.

An arrow whipped past his cheek to hit the tree behind him. A warning shot, telling him to stop. He did.

He braced himself, wary, relying on that sense of space that had always served him in combat before, Loki would perhaps have called it a _sixth sense_, after the mortal term for it. He didn't know.

"Who goes there, and what are you doing in our forest?" demanded the centaur who had shot at him.

"There is something different about this one, Ronan," said another of the centaurs. "What child would venture into the heart of our forest, in the middle of the night?"

"Hagrid advised us to ask the acromantulai of the forest what was causing the attacks at the school," Thor began to explain, and then halted when the black-haired one, the one who had most recently spoken, glared at him. He was not here to start a war, as he reminded himself.

Still he braced himself, his body automatically readying itself for the fight. Ronan might have no quarrel with him, but he sensed that the black-haired centaur was much as he had himself been, as his past self back in Asgard still was—eager for the fight, looking to prove himself, to vent any internal turmoil, to triumph. Battle rush was its own reward.

There were five centaurs, in all. Most of them were just out-of-sight, and it was possible that he'd missed even more.

He had the vague sense that he'd seen a handful of centaurs galloping off as the blond one—Firenze—had deposited a shaking Harry on the forest floor at the end of last year's disastrous detention. They'd been too preoccupied to notice him then, he supposed, or perhaps they hadn't thought twice about him, when Hagrid had been accompanying him. The glimpse he'd had of them was fleeting, as if they'd never intended to stay long, and found humans distasteful.

That was probably not a good sign. Probably as great of a warning as the black-haired centaur's belligerent glare.

Said centaur approached closer, paused, eyes narrowed, and scuffed at the mulch underfoot with his left front hoof. He tilted his head. Looked down on Thor.

"You…who are you?" he asked. A thread of caution in his voice, now. Why?

"I am Ron Weasley. A student up at the school," he began, but the centaur scoffed, whinnied, and then folded his arms over his chest. Hmm.

"Who are you, really?" he demanded. "Or rather, _what_ are you?"

His mouth went dry. He reminded himself, again, that he had no quarrel with them, that he was not seeking for a confrontation, and that Harry would doubtless be most displeased with him, should he pick a fight. With complete justification.

He hesitated too long. The centaur snorted, a very horsey sound, and clarified, "What manner of being are you, then? I will say this: we centaurs follow the gods of Greece, and have little enough dealings with those of other realms. Do not think that we will bow and scrape before you, no matter what or who you are. Lord Apollo will protect us."

Oh. He bowed his head. He had no idea how they could tell, but apparently, they _could_. Being reborn as a mortal wasn't enough, somehow. He held up his empty hands to show that he was unarmed, although that was about as accurate a gauge of threat level for a god as…well, it was a step below their spoken word that no harm would come to you.

"I mean you no harm," he said, in quite a different voice from that he'd used previously. "I seek only to pass through your forest, to speak with the acromantulai. I have no quarrel with your people—"

"Who are you? Identify yourself, and we will consider your words."

Bold, for a man who knew he addressed a god. Thor's head rose, his back straightened, head tilted back, arms folded in a pose that should have mirrored the black-haired, belligerent centaur's, and yet somehow looked quite different on Thor.

And not just because he was currently thirteen years old.

"Bane," the first centaur was saying, "perhaps you should back off a bit. You don't know what he is—"

"Bane" scoffed, turning his head slightly to address Ronan. "Either a god, or the child of one. But not one of the gods we follow. Tell us, then," he said, turning back to Thor. "And perhaps we can resolve things…_peacefully_."

The last word, spoken with distaste. Loki would find this situation hilarious, Thor was sure. With Harry off in the woods, he supposed it was inevitable that Thor would keep dwelling on what Loki would have done, in his place. Perhaps they shouldn't have split up—

"As you request," he said. "My name is Thor, son of Odin, Crown Prince of Asgard. Not under pain of violence or death do I ask your permission to travel through this forest. I have no quarrel with your people, I say again."

They tensed at his name, staring, Bane with his eyes narrowed, of course, probably wondering if he was that tough, if it came to blows. Had Thor truly once been that foolish?

His brother's voice, warning him a thousand times that he _should not seek __out__ fights_. And yet, he couldn't help it, couldn't help assessing the centaurs, how tough of opponents they would be. Bane, by all accounts the rashest, probably had some cause for it—and he carried no bow. He might be a challenge.

But that was not why Thor was here.

"We have heard the name," Bane said. Ronan threw out a hand to stop him, stepping forwards.

"We have heard that bloodshed and violence follow in your wake. That you seek out the thrill of battle. It is your driving force."

"I have changed," he said, lowering his gaze. "I have different priorities, now. Watch my every move if you mistrust my words, but I have spoken the truth. It is beneath my dignity to lie. I swear on my honour that I come here with peaceful intentions. War might follow in my wake, but it would not be a battle of my own making."

There was no reason to believe that they'd meet his present-day self. Still, it felt slightly disingenuous, and that, in turn, chafed at him. Again the question: since when was _he_ the liar?

Again the answer: but this is not quite a _lie_, now is it?

"Then, that is what we shall do," said Ronan, before Bane could interrupt, to pick a fight. The Loki, then, to Bane's Thor. Perhaps, there always was one. "We shall accompany you through our forest, Odinsson, but we warn you: these are protected woods, and greater threats than we patrol its depths. Be on your guard, and do not think we are helpless just because you do not _see_ our guardians."

A threat he could not ignore. His hands clenched into fists, but he lowered his gaze, reminding himself that he was Ron Weasley, and Ron Weasley would never have as much freedom or recourse as _Thor Odinsson_. He would have to use his wits, such as they were, and make his own path.

"You have my gratitude," he said, bowing, one hand over his heart. A thought struck him: hadn't Harry made much the same gesture, last year? But the light had been poor—it always was, in these woods—and Harry had been far away, and everything had been a flurry of motion. And that was a year ago. He couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was mere wishful thinking.

Perhaps.

A few minutes later, when he'd barely gotten any further, something very nearly crashed into him, but he dodged automatically, and the figure tripped on its own feet, before standing upright, if shaky, on its feet. He registered first the ripped black cloak, and then the hair filled with twigs. His brother. How—?

"I think we should go, now," Harry said, sounding a bit uneasy, gaze snapping back behind him. Thor could feel the centaurs watching.

"But the acromantulai—" Thor began.

"—know little more than what we knew ourselves, and are unwilling to reveal what they know besides. Now, they're trying to kill me, because I'm a free meal to them, so let's _go_, Ron."

Thor glanced around at the trees. "_Now_, preferably," said Harry. He barely sounded out of breath, but he was swaying where he stood. Thor glanced around at the forest, gaze meeting with a pair of dark eyes. A motion in the trees: _Go on, then_, it seemed to say.

"Then we shall leave," he said, with a sigh. He'd accomplished absolutely nothing, and Harry had almost died, again. They needed to come up with better plans. And perhaps find a way to placate the centaurs.


	45. Take the Right-Hand Path

**Chapter Forty-Five: Take the Right-Hand Path**

It was just as well they'd made their journey the night before, because, after a night's conference, the teachers (those who remained) had had some sort of congress, wherein they'd decided on new…_safety measures_. Such as that no student could walk the halls unaccompanied by an adult. And indeed, they were supposed to travel in great masses of people. Harry, never exactly _bad_ with people, was beginning to feel a bit twitchy. Apparently, he wasn't as good in large groups as he'd previously believed.

That was his primary qualm with the constant added security and supervision they now had to endure (which included security _trolls_, which was both somewhat alarming, and a painful reminder of Hermione's current incapacitation). Right now, he had little idea how to further their investigation of the cause of Hogwarts's current misfortunes. There was only one lead, and it would probably take quite a bit of work to get any information from that one lead (approaching Aragog again might almost be preferable). Myrtle was not known for being easy to speak with.

He wondered what had become of Tom Riddle's diary, but that lead had gone, one way or another. Was he the culprit? Or a witness capable of exposing the true Heir? Had someone, perhaps, threatened him to silence him, and that was why he'd shown Harry the memory of catching Hagrid? That wasn't the impression Harry had had….

He began to realise that, in fact, he would most likely be forced to resort to asking Myrtle. And that meant somehow finding a way to circumvent the teachers' well-intentioned protections.

He wasn't stupid; he knew that there was merit to the old saying about "safety in numbers", the school's current strategy. He would bring Ron with him. But that complicated things again.

In the end, he somehow convinced Ron to sneak out under the invisibility cloak, to speak with Myrtle in her bathroom. Hoping that she would be there; it was impossible to be sure beforehand, and she had the run of the school.

"Just…let me talk to her," Harry sighed. "Hermione seemed convinced that she was _almost_ friendly towards me."

He shoved aside the pang at the thought of Hermione, still unconscious, still as stone (or lithified) in the Hospital Wing. Ron bowed his head, and said nothing. Harry was sure that he was thinking of Hermione, too.

The snuck through the (mostly) empty halls in complete silence. Harry was almost inclined to scoff at how much laxer security was in the middle of the night (wasn't that when most villains acted, by stereotype?). But they passed through the school in utter silence, taking special care not to make any noise as they snuck past the troll guarding the entrance to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and Harry pulled the door open _very_ slowly.

They slipped inside with the minimum amount of space possible, and then Harry waited for the door to click shut, scanning the room for anyone else before he pulled off the invisibility cloak. He didn't see anyone, but Myrtle might still be lurking within earshot. Ghosts could walk through walls, and Myrtle had mentioned hiding out in the plumbing, for whatever reason.

"Myrtle? Are you here?" he called, too aware of how noisy his whisper sounded. Well, perhaps this hadn't been the best idea, but if she couldn't hear that whisper, then they would leave, and perhaps come back during a break, tomorrow. He'd just have to figure out how to give the professor-escorts the slip. He thought that he could figure out how to do that.

Ron tensed, too, at the noise, but relaxed when no troll came barging in to club them on the head. Although it was probably less the prospect of fighting a troll in a bathroom to defend Hermione, again, and more the thought of being caught by the professors and having to answer to them that he was dreading.

Whatever.

Myrtle appeared a few seconds later, looking almost cheerful.

She glanced back and forth, between the two of them, and then a puzzled frown graced her face. "You came to visit!" she said, smiling at the two of them. "But say, where's your ugly friend? The one with the messy hair?"

"Hermione is not ugly—" Ron began, but Harry shot him a look, and turned to Myrtle.

"I know you and Hermione don't get on, but she is our friend, and I would appreciate it if you didn't insult her," he said.

"If she starts showing me the same respect," Myrtle interrupted, frowning. "Did you just come here to criticise me? Because I can go back to the toilets, where at least no one will tell me I'm not welcome!"

She seemed to be on the verge of tears. Harry reached out a hand towards her—in a gesture, not an attempt to touch her. "I didn't mean that, Myrtle. We came here to see you, that's all. I don't mean to upset you, but…something happened to Hermione. We thought you might be willing to help us. I think you might be the only one who can."

She looked a bit miffed to his admission that he was just here to help his friend, but Harry's last comment seemed to cheer her up. Nothing like being singled out as being special and important to cheer up someone like Myrtle. Ron, watching, came to the decision that he would stop trying to figure out Myrtle. He had no idea how Harry was placating her, or, indeed, how to handle girls in general. Being polite and chivalrous seemed to be of little help.

"Oh, alright," Myrtle said, as if with the greatest possible reluctance. "What do you want to know?"

Harry frowned, ducked his head, shifting his feet, glancing around the room. "I don't know…I don't want to upset you…" he said. "I mean, you're a great person, and you've been so kind as to lend us your bathroom…."

"I'm sure you wouldn't say anything that would offend me," Myrtle said, smiling at him. He wished Hermione were there to hear her say that. "Impossible to please", huh?

"Well," he started again, glancing to Ron, standing there with a pensive frown, staring down at the floor. "I just was wondering…I don't know how to put this—"

"Just tell me!" Myrtle cried, leaning forwards in eager anticipation. She seemed to have forgot her usual air of melancholy and fussiness.

"Well, we were wondering if you would be willing to share with us what you remembered of your own…demise. It would be ever so helpful to us."

Ron could not make it clearer that he couldn't _believe_ what he was hearing and seeing.

Myrtle beamed, as if he'd just told her she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She looked _rapturous._

"Oh, it was _horrible_," she gushed. She was practically squealing with glee, hands clasped before her face. "I was sitting here in the toilets, crying because Olive Hornby had made fun of my new glasses. Stupid chit. I followed her until they hauled me off at her wedding—I already told you that. She never had to wear glasses."

Ron was about to interrupt, to try to get her on track, but she returned to the subject just then on her own. "Well, anyway, as I was sitting here, minding my own business, a _boy_ came into the bathroom. I didn't catch much of him—he was out over by that sink, there, when I opened my stall door. I opened it, see, to tell him that this was a _girls_ bathroom, and that he should find a boys bathroom to use. But I didn't catch more than that brief glimpse before I saw those yellow eyes, looking right at me as I opened the door. And with that, it was all over. Just like that."

She snapped her fingers. They didn't make any noise, and she frowned. "Just those bright yellow eyes, and a sensation of floating away. I was terrified; I wasn't ready; I didn't know what to do…then it felt as if something, some sort of purpose, anchored my soul back to the earth…but in what seemed like only a few seconds, I found that several hours had passed…at first no one saw me as I passed through the halls, but I gained opacity as I lingered on."

Fascinating as her account of life after death was, Harry was more interested in something else she said.

"Myrtle, might I interrupt you for a second?" he asked. He was still looking down at the floor. She smiled at him, still euphoric from whatever kick she got out of narrating the tale of her own death. Of course, _Sir Nick_ occasionally liked to brag about how many blows it had taken to mostly sever his head….

"What is it? What can I help you with?" she asked, not seeming to care that he'd interrupted her narration.

"I was wondering…just which sink was he standing in front of?"

Myrtle zipped off, before settling before the sink in the corner of the room, by the left wall. "This sink's never worked, either. I wonder why he chose this one?"

Harry came closer, examining it. There, on the tap, he saw a small "s" shape, with a slightly thicker head, and a tiny tongue flicking out from that head. Could it be? Well, Slytherin was noted for being a parselmouth. He turned from the sink. He was almost certain of it: this was how the monster entered the school. The sink wouldn't allow for more than a tiny monster to emerge by any normal means, but…well, this _was_ a magic school.

"Thank you, Myrtle," he said, turning to smile at her. "You've been very helpful. You answered more than I thought to ask."

This tap, was it the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets? It must be. But…that snake…if he were right, then there was no point in telling the professors, those who remained, or anyone else. Only Professor Dumbledore might have the skill to bypass whatever precautions Slytherin was bound to have taken to ensure that only one who spoke parseltongue could enter the Chamber, and someone had somehow ensured that he was removed from the school.

The best thing to do, then, was to lay a trap, but…how? Perhaps he could wait here, never leaving until the Heir acted again…but there had always been a matter of weeks between attacks. He couldn't wait forever—sooner or later, he needed to sleep, needed to eat, and if he missed his classes, he risked expulsion, which would do no one any good. Other than the Heir, he was the only known parselmouth in the school, perhaps the _only_ other parselmouth.

He didn't know what to do. Frowning, resolving to think about it, he turned to Ron, who was digesting the same information as Harry, but probably not yet to the state of planning on how to use that information. He nodded to Ron, hoping he understood. Thor probably would have, but, oh, well.

"Thank you, Myrtle. I understand that that must have been very difficult to relive. It was very kind of you to put yourself through that, just to help us."

The sudden increased opacity in her cheeks suggested Myrtle might be blushing.

* * *

It had been over two months since Ginny Weasley had stolen the diary back, and Tom was still seething over how he had been deceived. Imagine anyone pulling the wool over _his_ eyes! He, the Dark Lord, to whom none dared to lie! Of course, part of the reason that he was still seething was that, although the youngest Weasley had stolen it back two months ago, she had then waited for a couple of weeks before writing in it, desperately asking whether or not he'd revealed all of her secrets. He'd kept his silence on the matter: let her stew, as penance for having betrayed him.

How _dared_ she attempt to rid herself of his diary? How had she had strength enough to succeed?

Mostly, he was seething because it had only been a couple of weeks since Weasley had finally cracked, and admitted to him who it was who had briefly come into possession of the diary. None other than Harry Potter. A couple of weeks later, his anger still burnt red-hot. Harry Potter had made him look a fool, but he had seemed so credible, ever the scholars, were Ravenclaws, and his penmanship was so _neat_. He looked as if he'd been using a quill all of his life, and Tom knew for a fact that Potter had been raised by muggles. The thought that "James Ericson" had been lying hadn't even crossed his mind.

But, oh, he wouldn't have dared to lie had they met face-to-face! No one lied to the Dark Lord when they were in the same room, when the Dark Lord had an actual, human body, that he could use to kill, control, torture. But the thing in the diary was merely a horcrux, and, if capable of thought, nevertheless its thoughts were perhaps less complex than they should be. That was his justification, his excuse, for not catching the ruse.

And all it had taken to get Weasley to finally confess to him was forcing her to petrify her closest friend at Hogwarts (in truth, by chance, but he would never admit that to Weasley, it was important that she remain convinced that he knew _everything_). Said friend was, apparently, also a close friend of Potter's, and in her distress, Ginny Weasley had let slip whom it was he'd really spoken to, for that brief span of time.

But he would have his revenge. Ginny was weak and gullible and malleable. In the beginning, she'd merely been naïve enough to put her trust in an invisible stranger…but he'd worn her down, drained her energy, spirit, lifeforce, until she hadn't the strength to resist him, anymore. She clung to life, now, by mere threads. She hadn't realised it at the time, but in her panic, trying to discover what he might have told her…(what did they call them?) her _crush_, she'd spilt out her heart to him again, opened her heart to him again, and he'd used that, once more empowered to chart the course of her life for her. Unfortunately, being bound into a book as he was, he had no eyes with which to see her fear, the dread, the horror, as she realised what she had done. Hey, you couldn't have everything.

But he needed a plan. Some way to make Potter rue the day he'd ever tricked Tom Marvolo Riddle. And one was developing—yes, indeed, for Ginny, whether she realised it or not, was dying. Sooner or later, someone would notice. Unless….

* * *

Ginny Weasley seemed to appear out of nowhere, looking haggard and worn, frail and thin. She shambled over to their table, and sat down without asking permission. Harry was not inclined to scold her.

"I have to—I have to talk to both of you," she said, breathless, as if it were hard to breathe, as if merely talking were exhausting. Her hair was a stringy mess, dirty and somehow dimmed, her face pale, as if drained of blood. "_Please_," she begged, her voice hoarse, and almost a whisper.

"Are you alright, Ginny?" asked Harry, in an attempt at a friendly voice. Something about her seemed…off, to put it mildly. He forgot about his plate in front of him, turning his whole attention to her. "Ginny?" he asked again.

Ron, on her other side, seemed to be holding his breath. Ginny gave a wracking, tearless sob, and took a shuddering breath.

"I have to talk to you. I have to warn you—" she paused, seeming to struggle to find the right words, or perhaps to catch her breath. While they hadn't been paying attention to her, it was as if she'd run afoul of…something, _what_ he could only guess, and now stood at Death's door. How could he have missed that?

He reached out for her, unthinking, took her hand, noticing how it shook. She was speaking to him, so it couldn't be nerves.

"About what?" he pressed. "Does it have something to do with the Chamber of Secrets?"

Didn't everything, this year? It was May, now, and the last two dream sessions, since Valentine's Day, had been spent pondering the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets. Mother hadn't heard of it in her day. She had never researched it, and had little to contribute, but they'd bounced some ideas off one another. She, too, believed in Hagrid's innocence (despite a brief flare of maternal wrath when she heard of Harry's adventure in the Forest). But she couldn't figure it out—a student in Riddle's time had opened the Chamber of Secrets. Was that student now a teacher? Had it been a teacher all along? Or was something else at play?

Mother had also found the cessation of the attacks suspicious. She'd warned Harry to watch out for anyone acting suspicious, for _any_ reason. But the professors all said that same thing. And he'd noticed nothing suspicious, except for Percy Weasley routinely coming into the Hospital Wing to check on the ravenclaw prefect. (Mother had been amused when he'd pointed that out to her, assuring him that Percy's behaviour was… less than suspicious). He'd noticed nothing more even remotely suspicious, and the hufflepuffs had been as good as their word: with Hermione petrified, they'd been eager to bury the hatchet, and to suggest their own names as to who might be behind everything. Ron had played messenger for a still bitter Harry, who grudgingly agreed to give them another chance. But altogether, they still had made no headway. And other than the hufflepuffs being decent to him again, everyone had been acting as normal.

Until now. Because there was nothing normal about Ginny's sudden frailty, the hollow look of despair in her eyes, the sense that if he poked her, she would shatter.

She flinched at the mention of the Chamber of Secrets, and he was, quite suddenly, powerfully reminded of himself, of his own reactions to certain subjects, which once he'd wondered why. He frowned at that thought, realised that she might then think that he was frowning at her, and tried to level the expression out, to reassure her. There was no way that Ginny and he had anything in common, but she was clearly suffering, and he'd upset her plenty before.

When she nodded, as if it were too difficult to speak, he had to think quickly as to what to do next. She was seeking them out because she had knowledge of the Chamber of Secrets. Find out what she knows, reassure her, somehow make everything right again. That was apparently his role here at Hogwarts: not a student, but a protector.

An _avenger_? He hoped not, but he meant to avenge Hermione, so….

But perhaps Ginny needed avenging more.

"Do you know who opened the Chamber of Secrets?" he asked her, flat-out. Something—perhaps his sixth sense, his intuition—told him he would regret beating around the bush. Better to give her a series of yes-or-no questions until they'd laid out an outline of what she might have to say. Perhaps then she would feel better….

He glanced at Ron, who seemed to be exerting great mental focus towards not saying anything. Ginny nodded again. Yes, she knew who was opening the Chamber of Secrets.

"_Help_," she whispered, as if the word came from the bottom of a deep, deep well. "I didn't want to; I didn't know what was happening; he _made_ me—"

But then, abruptly, she stood, turned her back on them, walking away. Ron grabbed hold of her arm (he was insanely fast), as she stood.

"Ginny, are you alright? What are you talking about?"

She laughed. "Nothing. I just thought I'd get back at Harry for his pranks last summer, is all," she said, with a grin that didn't seem to suit her. Her voice was much stronger than it had been seconds ago, and she carried herself differently. Ron frowned in evident confusion. Harry felt his heart skipping a beat.

"Ron, stop her!" he cried, but even as he spoke, Ginny threw off Ron's hand, taking a few steps back, and pointing her suddenly drawn wand at the two of them, eyes narrowed.

"You and Percy, always fretting about your weak, helpless little sister. Honestly, just leave me alone! Final exams are stressful enough without you breathing down my neck!"

And she stormed off, as if nothing had even happened. But Harry understood. He did. He thought to that look in her eyes, haunted, faint. He thought of her plea: _Help me_. His fist clenched, and, in an uncharacteristic display of anger on his part, he slammed his fist down on the table so hard that the ceramic plate with which it accidentally made contact shattered into tiny ceramic shards, some of which, unfortunately, became embedded in that same fist.

He didn't notice them, didn't notice his hand bleeding, didn't notice Ron looking at him with no small degree of alarm, as he, too, leapt to his feet, determined to see the end of this, determined to save her. Ginny might be no damsel in a tower, but that didn't mean she didn't occasionally need rescuing from a hungry monster.

He just needed to figure out how. And fast, for he sensed that he was running out of time.

* * *

It was only a couple of days later, with his hand still healing, that it happened. Ron had dragged him to the Hospital Wing for Madam Pomfrey's analysis, and she had insisted that he return every few hours for her to check on his accidentally-self-inflicted wounds. This was a hassle, because the staff were still convinced that they could somehow prevent the inevitable, if they just escorted everyone everywhere. As his head of house, McGonagall was often volunteered, but Lockhart, the false professor, seemed to take great pleasure in tormenting Harry, himself. It was stretching Harry's patience to the very end of its tether.

And then it happened, and time seemed to slow down, eclipsed by the need to think and plan and act, and to do everything in exactly the right way, in exactly the right order, no mistakes allowed, for if he made just one, Ginny would surely die.

And yes, he rather suspected that it was Ginny even before they eavesdropped on the staff meeting, hoping to catch one of the professors alone.

How had they managed to sneak in? Well, that was where his injury seemed almost to have come in useful. By now, it was at least halfway healed, although it _hurt_ to even clench his hand into a fist, still. He could work through pain. He knew that.

Actually, he thought he remembered _Loki_ thinking something to that effect, last year, if that had been real. At the very least, that part of him that he'd given that name seemed to have thought it. Which meant that he, whether it was just a matter of belief or not, had it within him to keep going, no matter how it hurt. To cast a spell without his hand shaking and disturbing the aim or accuracy.

He'd gone to Madam Pomfrey for his usual checkup, and Ron had come with him, and McGonagall had escorted them. Ron never missed a chance to check on the petrified Hermione, always in silence, and Harry came over to sit with him, occasionally, and to ponder….

McGonagall had stood near the entrance of the Hospital Wing, on the watch for any prowling monsters. But then Professor Flitwick had appeared, face drawn and tired and sad, and Harry knew, just as Professor McGonagall, that something bad had happened. Another petrification, he'd thought at the time. And he hadn't seen Ginny since she'd sat with them the other day, two days ago, at the breakfast table, begging for their help.

He'd known that helping her would mean tracking her down. But she was nowhere to be found. He'd even asked Ron to use that spell he'd mentioned on the train before first year ("You remember that?"), but, for whatever reason, it hadn't worked, although he'd tried several times. Possibly, whatever was controlling her had a way of blocking it, or perhaps…no, he wouldn't think it. Ginny couldn't be _that_ close to death. Surely, she must have enough of a soul to be tracked….

To distract himself from these thoughts, he watched McGonagall leaving out of the corner of his eye, with a stern glare at them, that they should stay put until an escort could come to take them to their next class.

_Does she not realise that this latest attack has proven that their protective measures were useless? All the professors of Hogwarts could never follow, guard, keep track of the whereabouts of __**every**__ student. This endeavour was doomed from the start. The illusion of security…._

He turned to Hermione, lying there, unmoved from when she had first arrived, months ago. Remembered something very important when he glanced at her hand, the one that had perhaps held the compact mirror.

Had it? He reached for Hermione's hand still clenched tight. It was closed into a fist; it couldn't be that she was still attempting to hold that compact mirror. She must have found something. Tilting his head at an angle, he could see a hint of yellowed paper sticking out. Had she torn out a page from a library book, in her haste? Whatever it was, he was sure that it was relevant. Still, how to get that page out? If Hermione was petrified, did that mean she'd turned to actual stone, and he risked breaking off her fingers if he didn't go about this quite right? Or was it more a short-hand term, a reference to the lack of give, the utter stillness, cessation of all movement and function?

Better to tear the paper, than to risk harm to Hermione's hand. She had a very tight grip. But patience, patience! He'd had much cause to learn just that skill at the Dursleys, and as was true of too much of their treatment, it would serve him well now.

He slowly pulled the paper, jostling Hermione's hand slightly as it slid free of her clenched fist. She hadn't expected to be petrified, at that moment.

He spread the paper flat on the mattress next to her, and read avidly. A "_basilisk"_? The king of _snakes_, Hagrid's dead roosters, which he'd thought little of before, the fleeing spiders, the voice that only he could hear, in the walls…. The _walls…._

He glanced at the word written in Hermione's own hand next to the entry. _Pipes_. That was why the voice seemed to be in the walls—the plumbing served as a sort of passageway, and the hidden secrets of the castle gave it hidden entries into the castle proper. The entrance to the Chamber, in the tap, the way in.

They had to at least _try_ to tell the professors, even if he sincerely doubted that they'd listen. What had it ever availed him, before? But he showed the paper to Ron, watched him read, watched him understand. Hermione had figured it out before them, for the most part, but she'd had no chance to show them what she'd figured out. Whom might they have saved, if Harry had just remembered earlier?

Ron came to much the same conclusion as Harry: that they must sneak out of the Hospital Wing, now their guard had gone, to the staff room. Harry was fairly sure he knew where it was, but they could always try to follow a staff member. That was perhaps best… suppose they decided to meet elsewhere?

And that was what they did, sneaking through the halls under the invisibility cloak, until they found the staff room (it had taken a few shortcuts to get there before McGonagall), and hid in the cupboard, where they could hear what was going on, and even sort of see….

There was a moment when Harry thought they'd surely be discovered, even as his stomach sank at the confirmation of what he'd already guessed (sort of). Ginny might not have been petrified, but what _had_ happened was even worse: she'd been "taken down into" the Chamber itself. _Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever_? That almost sounded a challenge.

He cast a silent _silencio_ on Ron to muffle the sound of him crying, both because he needed to hear more, and lest Ron give them away. They were hiding under the invisibility cloak, true, but….

And thus, they waited. Harry wasn't even sure what they were waiting for, now, only that it seemed too much of an effort to stand, just yet. Too much of an effort to _move_, just yet. Why had they thought this a good idea? Why had he thought this a good idea? But wait they did, for the staff room to clear out, to find a professor to listen to them.

Unfortunately, when the room cleared, only one professor lagged behind: Lockhart. And they were not expecting for their well-intentioned plan to assist to become a confrontation.


	46. Liars

**Chapter Forty-Six: Liars**

Time seemed to grind to a halt. At the very least, it had slowed, since he first heard confirmation of Ginny's current predicament. She couldn't be dead yet. Surely not. But he remembered how she had looked, two days ago, at the breakfast table, and feared, despite himself. Ron was crying in silence next to him in the cupboard, until he opened the cupboard door, seeing that only Lockhart remained, but hoping that even Lockhart was better assistance than _none at all_.

He was so very, very wrong. It was a good thing that adrenaline had kicked in, that time had slowed to a crawl to give him the space to think.

He gently lifted the cloak off himself, and emerged from the cupboard, approaching Professor Lockhart with sincere hesitance.

"Professor Lockhart? Might we have a word?" Harry asked, with the utmost politeness. It was galling to have to be polite to the fraud, but it would probably be worse when he had to stroke his ego just to get him to help. Which he saw coming, or thought he did. Until….

Lockhart started. "Ah, Harry Potter! How can I help you?" Lockhart smiled, but his smile was very thin, and quite obviously fake.

"We have something we need to tell you," Harry said. "We couldn't help hearing that Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. We'll need your help in rescuing her."

Doubtless they needed a chaperone, and excuse for why they had left the Hospital Wing unattended, both of which covers Lockhart could provide. Harry still wished that it were someone other than Lockhart, but… if there were even half a grain of truth in his stories, then Lockhart might be useful for _something_. And if not…where had the stories come from? Were they all just fiction? Deep down, although Harry was loath to admit it, he was hoping that the adults would solve the problem, as they hadn't last year. And if all else failed…Lockhart was the most expendable adult.

"Ah, well, I was just heading back to my office. Perhaps we could speak there," said Lockhart. It was clear from his voice that he was paying little heed to Harry, and that what attention he _was_ being given was only an indulgence. He didn't think Harry knew anything at all.

And he hadn't noticed that Harry had said "we". Nor noticed whence Harry had come. Harry glanced back at the cupboard wherein Ron hid, and then said to Lockhart, "Sure. I suppose I don't want everyone to know that we escaped our chaperones to come wait for you in the staff room."

He glanced again at Ron's cupboard, thinking that it was just as well that Ron was still silenced, and under the invisibility cloak. Still, he'd like to be sure of where Ron was. But there was no help for it.

He followed Lockhart through the halls until he reached the familiar room in which he'd had his detention at the beginning of the year. Lockhart was far more narcissistic than Stark, unless Stark had plastered his living quarters with framed photographs of himself. It was appalling. Harry averted his eyes, looking at the floor. He held the door open a bit longer than he needed to get in, hanging on it as if unthinking, gathering his thoughts.

Lockhart was beginning to remove the photos from the walls, rolling them up, those that weren't framed, into scrolls, and stuffing them into a muggle suitcase.

"What are you doing, Professor?" he asked, with curiosity that was, at least initially, fake.

Lockhart jumped, as if he hadn't remembered that Harry were there. "I'm packing. I'm leaving," he said. "But let me know what you found out. I can pass the information on. And I'll see to it that you don't get in trouble for wandering the castle unsupervised."

That was suspiciously generous of him, and Harry's downcast eyes narrowed. Hmm.

"'Leaving'," he repeated, his mind catching up to itself. "But what of Ron's sister, Ginny?"

"An unfortunate tragedy," said Lockhart, rolling up another poster, sticking it into his suitcase, and then yanking the first portrait off the wall. If Harry had known who she was, he would have compared how the portrait seemed to shrink as it was stuffed into the suitcase to Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, he did not. He was almost impressed, instead. Almost, because his mind was too fixated upon far more important matters. _What of Ginny_? An "unfortunate tragedy"?

"But you're the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor! All those things you wrote about in your books—"

Alright, he admitted to hoping that Lockhart had _some_ sort of technical knowledge, even if his actual experience were somewhat lacking, as displayed in the Dueling Club. That probably made him naïf. He should be thankful that he had any innocence left….

"Books can be misleading," Lockhart said, instead, as Harry finally let the door shut, by just letting go the handle.

Harry stared. That sentence, out of context, was innocuous. _In_ context, it sounded more of a confession, a roundabout way of saying that they were all made up.

"But you _wrote_ them!" he protested, flinging up his hands. "You must know _something_ about Defence against the Dark Arts, or why did Dumbledore choose you for this job?"

"A shortage of volunteers," said Lockhart, succinctly. "Oh, come now! They say this job is cursed, but I never expected to have a year half as dangerous as this one! I've had it! I'm gone!"

"Then…your books…there isn't _any_ truth to them? Those spells…they're just made-up words that don't do _anything_? You don't even have any _technical_ knowledge?"

Lockhart set aside the latest portrait he removed from the walls, and turned to Harry.

"Of course I didn't do any of those things, but it doesn't mean I didn't work hard! I traveled all over the world…made sure I got as thorough of an account of what happened from the people who fixed the problems I wrote about. None of them were very photogenic, you know—the woman who banished the banshee had a harelip, for God's sake! And I trained myself in a very special memory charm, to ensure that none of them remembered a thing—a special obliviate spell of my own invention. But I've no experience with fighting monsters. No, 'not even _technical_'!" He sneered at Harry, who stood in the doorway, still, hands clenched. Lockhart was a horrible liar. He should have asked flat out, if he had any experience, at any time this year. Then he'd have known not to waste his time, whether Lockhart said yes or no.

Lockhart blinked, several times, as if just realising how much he had just admitted. He pointed his wand at Harry. "But I can't have you spilling my secrets to the wizarding world. I'm very sorry, Harry Potter. I'll just have to remove all your memories of this conversation—it doesn't hurt, so don't worry—"

The wand that he was pointing at Harry suddenly left his hand, as Lockhart blinked, apparently stunned. Ron, silenced under the invisibility cloak, had given no hint of his presence. Harry swayed on his feet, unseated and shaking at the realisation that Lockhart had just tried to wipe his memory.

And how much of his memory would he have wiped? If he'd wiped only their memories of having the conversations with Lockhart, the heroes of his stories would have come forwards to accuse Lockhart of lying about his accomplishments, they'd have shown him up as a fraud.

Lockhart had tried to meddle with his mind. That thought rose to the fore, drowning out most of the others, filling him with a familiar cold wrath. There was a certain detachment from the situation, now, almost a detachment from himself, as if witnessing his own actions from the outside. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many times anyone had pushed him this far. But there was a bitter taste in his mouth, a flicker of alarm, remembering all the other instances where someone had meddled with his mind.

It never boded well. It never ended well. And Lockhart had no idea how narrowly he'd avoided making that same mistake, but that was no excuse, no absolution for him. Harry's fists clenched tighter, as he thought about it. He was almost certain it was Quirrell probing his mind in the Forbidden Forest that had awakened that corrupted corner. Even the smallest thing….

Lockhart looked suddenly feeble under Harry's glare, with the phoenix feather wand pointed at him so, so steadily.

"You shall help us, willing or no," Harry announced, the words a decree, a sentence, _judgement_. "You _shall_ help us to rescue Ginny. And then, perhaps, you will have something truthful to write in your fiction books."

Ron opened the door to Lockhart's quarters, and Harry gave the false professor a mocking bow. "After you, _professor_," he said, and shoved him through.

They led him through the otherwise-empty corridors at wand-point, passing no one on the way. It was a very good thing that Hogwarts used always the same protocols when something bad happened: retreat to your dorms. We shall tell you more later.

The school was empty. The school was theirs to wander. But Harry made his way through the normally filled corridors to Myrtle's bathroom, Ron opening the door and letting them pass. He removed the invisibility cloak only then, and Lockhart's eyes widened.

"Mr. Weasley?" he asked, as if _Ron_ were a ghost.

Ron gave no response, just glaring at him with an alarming amount of hatred, or anger. The tears still drying on his face in no way lessened the effect of Ron's death glare. Harry cast a _finite incantatem_ on him, in case that were the reason for his silence. Somehow, he doubted it.

"You would leave Ginny to die?" Ron demanded, his voice pitched at least an octave lower than usual.

"Er—well, I mean—"

Lockhart glanced back and forth between the two of them, looking for weakness, an exploitable gap in the ranks. Harry's arm and hand were steady, despite his aggravating his wounds by holding the wand in the fist that was still recovering from its recent abuse. Ron leveled the wand Malfoy had broken at the beginning of the year at Lockhart, trusting the man not to realise that this was the damaged wand that behaved erratically. Lockhart often missed these big details.

"You would have sent us away, when only Harry can access the Chamber of Secrets? You would sentence Ginny, _my sister_, a child under your protection, to death? All because you are too much of a coward to even risk your reputation. Do you prize her life that little, that you value your name over it?"

"Now, see here—" Lockhart began, but Ron was backing up to the familiar sink.

"It's alright, Myrtle! Don't be alarmed, but we're going to go into the Chamber of Secrets now. Don't worry, we'll…_avenge_ you," Harry called to the ghost girl, his voice full of feigned cheer, his attention, same as Ron's, on Ron's ongoing confrontation with Lockhart.

"Cowards perish first," said Ron, pushing Lockhart towards the secret entrance. "And thus, you may enter first, and see if you might not redeem yourself, in your last moments of life."

Wow. Harry had forgotten how scary angry-Ron was. But this time, he completely approved.

He walked over to the tap, to stand next to Lockhart, and imagined that there was a little green snake sitting there. And then he shrugged, remembering that day in the Dueling Club, when Malfoy had summoned a snake.

"_Serpensortia_," he tried, pointing his wand at the sink. He wasn't sure he quite understood how parseltongue worked. When he'd spoken at the Dueling Club, he'd thought he'd been speaking English. That suggested, if he tried to speak English to this snake, it would also be parseltongue. The logic made sense to him.

"What I'm about to say won't make much sense," he told the snake. "But it isn't meant for you. You can go do whatever you want, if you just wait until I've opened the way. Do you understand?"

The snake nodded. Okay. Harry stared at it, and it gave him a distinctly bored flick of the tongue.

_Hurry up_, it said. _I'm bored_.

As if he couldn't tell. There was a flicker of curiosity, of fascination, the desire to study this unique experience…but that was all deep beneath the surface, under the roiling anger directed towards Lockhart, and whomever had taken Ginny, and a gnawing guilt and fear at what had befallen her. Had he tried harder, might he have prevented this?

"Open," he told the snake, and reached out to catch it as the sink fell away. It slithered up his arm, radiating shock and panic.

"My apologies," he told it. "I did not expect that."

He gave it a few seconds for it to make its way down to the floor, and meanwhile, he turned to Lockhart.

"You heard what Ron said," he said, leveling a glare at the man. "Cowards first."

And he shoved Lockhart through the opening.

He screamed all the way down, but there seemed to be some sort of path—a pipe forming a sort of slide. Belatedly, he thought to cast _lumos_, to see how it illumined the way down. Pipe-slide. Sounded fun.

"Do you like slides?" he asked Ron, with feigned levity. He'd forgotten that Ron didn't fall for that.

"I shall go next," he said, perhaps in response, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Be careful."

And he swung his legs over the side of the pipe and slid down.

"Why are _you_ telling _me_ to be careful?" Harry asked, stepping forward to peer over the side, again.

"Ron!" he yelled. No response. His gut clenched. Please, let him not lose Hermione, _and_ Ron.

He swung his legs over, as Ron had, and fell into the pipe as well.

It was a slide. The feeling of weightlessness almost similar to riding a broomstick would probably have been a very enjoyable experience, under other circumstances. At the very least, it did not trigger the sense of panic of being unable to see the ground beneath him, which he had half-expected. He hadn't had much opportunity for play at the Dursleys, but there was a playground near Number Four, and he'd been a few times when he'd been younger, back when Dudley had still been interested. For whatever reason, he'd always favoured the swings, himself, perhaps because there was a rhythm to it, and once you got going, it became automatic, and you could just _think_. But he had some experience with slides, too, and this was very similar. Only…there was probably not sand at the end, to break your fall.

There wasn't. Instead, there was cold, hard stone, familiar from his last journey deep beneath the school, at the end of last year. He was starting to see some trends here. Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers were evil, and would eventually try to kill him (or worse). He'd end up in the many subterranean passages beneath the school, have his confrontation with the evil professor, and then…possibly die, and go crazy, and have to be dragged back to his senses by Ron.

That was unacceptable. Ginny's life was on the line. If he went crazy, he might end up harming her. But where _was_ she, anyway?

If he'd been smart, Lockhart would have waited to the side of the slide, and ambushed Ron on the way down, stealing the (broken) wand, with which he'd threatened Lockhart earlier. Instead, now Ron held him at wand-point, as he waited for Harry to catch up. Harry rolled his eyes, pointing his own holly-and-phoenix-feather wand at the untrustworthy professor.

"Don't try anything,"Harry warned him, as he rose to his feet, still a bit unsteady, with his aim just about the only steady thing about him. _Show no weakness_.

"Boys, boys," Lockhart began, but that was as far as he got before Ron's level stare silenced him. Yeah. Once you saw one of Ron's death glares, you were hesitant to press _any_ issue. Unless you were family, or Harry, or Malfoy.

…That list was longer than anticipated.

They continued on for a few minutes, walking in the light of Harry's _lumos_ spell. They paused by a giant white shape sitting discarded off to the side of the surprisingly smooth stone path (sure, there were animal skeletons here and there, but the floor itself was remarkably level). Harry, considering, intensified the light emitted by the wand rather than give Lockhart a bit of freedom. He realised that the shape was a giant snake skin; cast off, shed, it was nevertheless taller than he, the diameter wide enough then, that he could have lain down inside across it.

…Probably not the best thought to have at that time, but understandable, given that he had yet to see the creature that had shed it. Most likely the basilisk. They should probably shut their eyes and move forwards by feel alone, but….

"At the first sign of movement, shut your eyes," he hissed to both of them. If Lockhart were petrified, he'd cease to be of use even as cannon fodder, and he'd have leverage on them, besides. No, Harry meant to either find an excuse to kill Lockhart, or use his own spell against him, at the end of all of this.

He did get his opportunity.

Lockhart was more competent than he'd made himself out to be. That split second of distraction, when Harry gave that instruction, was all he needed to tackle Ron and (although this seemed incredible to Harry in later years) wrest the wand from Ron's hand. Perhaps it was because he knew that the wand was defective and liable to backfire that Ron ceded it so easily. Perhaps desperation gave Lockhart unusual strength, coupled with the unexpected nature of the assault. These things are never that easy to piece together after the fact. Regardless, wrest it away he did, and then pointed the wand directly at Ron.

"Not so fun being on the other end of it, is it?" he demanded. "I know a lot more spells than either of you do, too. No one is down here but the three of us, to know which ones I use. My modified memory charm…or an Unforgivable. So don't move, Harry Potter. _Expelliarmus_."

He began to back away, but managed to catch Harry's wand as it sailed over to him. Apparently, he was a psychopath, after all. Maybe _he_ had opened the Chamber of Secrets….?

But there was no time to think about that. With Ron under immediate threat, Harry had to think very hard, and do nothing until he had everything mapped out just so. He could afford no mistakes. Not now, with Ron's life on the line as well as Ginny's. Lockhart would not move, would not sacrifice the hold he had over Harry, unless Harry forced his hand. That gave Harry the space to think, and he thought fast, on his feet, which was what he did best.

What _Loki_ did best.

Well, first things first: what was Lockhart doing? Trying to get away, trying to get around them. Trying to leave, or…trying to get behind Harry.

That was more likely, and that couldn't be allowed. "I think I'll take a bit of this skin back to the castle. I'll tell them that at the sight of Ginny dead the two of you _tragically_ lost your minds."

Wand still trained on Ron. It could not be relied upon to malfunction. And if it did, Lockhart could always use Harry's. Harry had to act, and act fast. If he didn't, Lockhart would erase both of their memories. There was just one advantage he had over Lockhart's superior repertoire and position: he didn't need a wand to use magic. And Lockhart didn't know that.

His gaze met Ron's, silently asking for…well, probably for permission. For forgiveness, perhaps, too. They'd spared Lockhart once, and where had it gotten them? They should have wiped his memories themselves rather than bring him down here, or once they knew it was safe down here, with no immediate threats lurking.

Harry realised that his wand arm was still pointed at where Lockhart had been. A useless gesture, now, but the man had said not to move.

Ron seemed to get the message. He turned his head away, and nodded, a gesture so slight that Harry caught it only because he was looking for it.

Harry was fast, knew he was fast—the youngest Seeker in a century, those years of evading Dudley. He whipped his right hand around to point at Lockhart, and cried, "_reducto_!"

The name of the spell was needed, or _felt_ necessary, at least, when you had no conductor, no focus to lend the spell power. He aimed for Lockhart's chest, because that general area had a lot of vital organs that could be destroyed or disconnected.

Lockhart fell back, dead, and with a gaping hole in his side. Harry was surprised at how little effect the sight had on him as he calmly walked over to Lockhart's still warm body, prising open the fist clenched tight over Harry's own wand, and then casting _expelliarmus_ to get Lockhart to give up Ron's broken one. It was sparking, which couldn't be a good sign. Wand lore held that some wands were fickle, and could be persuaded to switch masters. Just how did a break in the wand affect that, and how did such shifts of allegiance affect the breakage of a wand? He sighed, and, with some misgivings, handed the bloody wand over to Ron. Ron was several feet away from Lockhart, but there was still blood on him, so there was probably blood on Harry's clothes, and in his hair. He frowned, and then shrugged it off.

"We should have killed him earlier," Harry said conversationally, "before he could sabotage us."

Ron made to respond, but just then, his wand shot a jet of light at the ceiling, and rocks tumbled down. Ron shoved Harry aside, out of the way of a particularly nasty one, and then they were on opposite sides of a rockfall. Harry couldn't see Ron. Panic set in.

"Ron!" he screamed, again. He was not half so blasé, now.

"Are you injured?" asked Ron's voice, from the other side of the rock wall.

"No. You saved me. Are you alright, Ron?" Harry asked. He clenched the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand tighter.

"Nothing hit me. I'm fine. But…I see no gap in this wall. It bars my way forward, and your way back. I am afraid that you must continue alone, Harry. Forgive me. If I had only listened to you, and used Malfoy's—"

Harry waved a hand in dismissal, even though Ron couldn't see it. "Forget it. It's just as well. If you had been using an actual wand, I wouldn't have dared to use that curse on Lockhart. And then he would have obliviated us both, and Ginny would have no hope. And speaking of Ginny, I should continue on. But…you do understand _why_ I did what I did, right?"

A pause. Harry's heart seemed to forget to beat in those few seconds, as if it, too, were holding its breath, straining to hear Ron's answer. Why did it matter so much?

"Yes. I understand. You did nothing wrong, Harry. But please, I beg of you, _hurry_. But be careful, too."

Harry rolled his shoulders, and shrugged.

"I shall attempt to clear a way back for you, on your return. Good luck, Harry."

"Thanks, Ron! You're the best!" he said, in a voice full of an almost-sincere levity. He had to admit that he was relieved that Ron didn't seem to think he was a monster, even though he'd just killed someone.

But if he hadn't…Ginny would have died.

Ginny….

He pressed forwards with greater speed than previously (no longer slowed by the need to guard Lockhart), until he came to a huge set of double doors, decorated with serpents intertwined, staring at him with emerald green eyes, they judged him from their positions on the door. On either side, torches burnt, but the colour seemed somehow…off, and they burnt when there could not be any fuel left for them to burn. They generated no heat.

The flickering nature of torchlight made the snakes seem to twist and writhe. He needed no imaginary snake, nor summoned one, to approach the door and hiss, "_Open_".

The eyes of the snakes glowed, and the doors slid apart, silently, silently. Harry passed through, and beyond, into the fabled Chamber of Secrets.

Here, the subterranean tunnels of the castle broadened into a natural cavern, and Slytherin had left it thus, for the most part unhewn, unfinished, uneven. He'd flattened the floor, but left the walls roughhewn and bumpy, save for a statue of himself. Backed up against the walls, it stood larger than life, rising into the ceiling above, the mouth as tall as a man, pursed in a sneer. The eyes narrowed, with a simian face, and a goatee. There at the feet, between his shoes, was a figure, catching his eyes because of her bright red hair.

He forgot about his fatigue, running over to her, where she lay utterly still. He knelt down beside her, turning her over carefully, holding his breath as he strained to hear hers. She was so cold.

Cold as ice. How often had he thought that? It seemed as if the universe were mocking him….

_Don't die, Ginny. Please, don't be dead._

"She won't wake," said a voice, one he couldn't place, although he knew it sounded familiar. His head whipped around to pinpoint the source, and he saw a figure leaning against one of the columns supporting the chamber. It was a boy of about sixteen, with short, neat black hair, and piercing blue eyes. His stance was casual, but somehow guarded, the stance of a sentry on lookout, except for that feigned air of unconcern, the way his hands were clenched around his upper arms. The way he seemed to be trying not to show that he was examining Harry, even as Harry was evaluating him. Trying to place him. It clicked. _Tom Riddle_.

But there was an odd, misty bright whiteness, like fog, billowing around the boy's form, as motes will in shafts of sunlight.

"What do you mean, 'she won't wake'?" Harry snapped, guard instantly up again. "What have you done to her?"

"James Ericson, I presume?" asked Riddle, uncrossing his arms, and pushing off from the pillar against which he'd been resting his foot. There was a mocking tilt to his head as he continued to study Harry even as he approached. "As for what I mean by her not waking…never fear: she is still alive, but only just. And I haven't done anything to her. How could I, insubstantial as I am?"

He did look a lot like a ghost…. But only one person had died when the Chamber had been opened the last time: Myrtle. Riddle professed to have caught the Heir, but he _must_ be the Heir, himself, to be here now.

Unless he'd died later? Harry found himself wavering, unsure now.

"Are you a ghost, then?" he asked, glancing back down at Ginny. If Tom were a ghost, then, one way or the other, he couldn't harm Harry. Only Peeves had that ability, and he was a special kind of ghost (not even a ghost).

"No," said Riddle, frowning. "I am something more special than that: a memory of myself at sixteen, preserved in a diary for fifty years."

"Then how do I know that you pose no threat?" asked Harry, watching out of the corner of his eyes.

"I never said that I posed no threat," said Riddle, with a smile. There was no warmth to that expression, no sincerity. Harry felt as if he'd been left out of a joke, or perhaps Riddle saw a joke that he didn't feel like sharing.

"What did you do to Ginny?" he asked again, straightening his back, and raising himself into a crouch from where he had knelt. He turned to face Riddle, to better gauge his expressions, to show that he was openly wary of the boy.

Riddle's smile widened. "Me? I did nothing. I suppose you could say that the reason that Ginny Weasley is the way she is now is that she opened her heart, and poured out all her secrets to an invisible stranger."

Again, Ron's voice, urging a warning: _'Never trust anything if you can't see where it keeps its brain'_.

"Ginny confided in her diary for _everything_. About having to wear castoffs, and how her brothers teased her, how she worried how she'd do at school, how she'd live up to expectations, and—" Riddle's eyes seemed to glow, as he smirked, "—how she didn't think good, brave, _noble_ Harry Potter would _ever_ like her."

Something in that smirk told Harry that he had been caught out, that Tom had known even before Harry's arrival. But how?

He glanced down again, at Ginny's prone form. He gently leant her back against the statue's foot, resting her upright, as if she were a doll, a toy, instead of a human being. And meanwhile, he listened, as Tom continued.

"Well, it is very _boring_, having to listen to the trivial complaints and woes of a little girl. But I wrote back anyway. I was patient. I was kind. Ginny simply _loved_ me. 'Dear Tom, It's so wonderful having this diary to confide in. It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket'." He laughed, and it was an eerily familiar sound, high-pitched and sharp. Harry knew he could place it, given time, but for now, he continued to listen with growing horror—and anger—to Tom's tale.

"Well, I have always been able to charm those I needed to. And Ginny continued to pour out her soul to me, and her soul was exactly what I needed. I grew ever stronger, feeding on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. Soon enough, I was strong enough to return the favour. Strong enough to pour a little of _my_ soul back into her. Reveal a few secrets of my own."

Harry gasped, figuring it out. And was Ginny's soul still pouring out, then? Was that why Riddle's form continued to gain substance, to look more and more _human_, and less and less _ghost_? And pouring his soul into her…possession. That had been _Riddle_ the other day at breakfast.

The very real pain of his still-injured hand was nothing next to Harry's mounting rage. He clenched his fists tight, barely aware that they were digging into the still-weakened skin. He felt no pain. His gaze locked on Tom's smirk, and he rose to his feet.

"You dared—" he began, dimly aware that there was a distinctly _non-Harry-Potter_ quality to his voice, to his inflection, to his diction.

Tom Riddle didn't notice. He cut Harry off.

_And he has yet to lie…but that cannot be. His earlier statement about not being able to harm Ginny is contradicted by his more recent statements of being the cause of her current state. Then…here is __**another**__ able to lie to me._

"Yes, I see that you understand. It was Ginny Weasley who killed Hagrid's roosters. Ginny Weasley who daubed threatening messages on the walls. Ginny Weasley who set the basilisk on three mudbloods, and a squib's cat. But that doesn't matter. For some time now, I've been after someone else. You."


	47. Psychopaths

**author's note:** I guess I'll keep going with this. I've enjoyed fics that stuck closer to canon than this does.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Psychopaths**

Harry couldn't react for a moment. His mind was processing all of this new information, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation. And now, dimly, he felt it, the burning in his arms and legs. Perhaps it had started a while ago, and he hadn't noticed, through his mounting rage. It was not yet bright enough to be seen through the folds of his robe, only in his hands. Mother considered Riddle a threat too, then. Or she was reacting to Harry's apprehension, his resignation, his comprehension.

It was only a matter of time before Riddle noticed, but meanwhile, he kept talking, kept walking, kept solidifying.

"You are _wrong_," Harry declared, tilting his head to look down at Riddle. Riddle stopped, as if a bit thrown by this reaction. He waved his hand, a gesture inviting Harry to continue. _Just __**what**__ am I wrong about, Harry Potter_?

"It was not _Ginny_ who petrified those students, or Mrs. Norris. No more was it _Ginny_ who killed Hagrid's roosters, or wrote on the wall. It was _you_, no matter that you acted via a vessel. For she was not in control of her own body when you allege that she committed those crimes, was she?"

Riddle started walking again. "And who will know any different, if the attacks cease with her death? Academic. A splitting of hairs—"

"A very important distinction," Harry cut across him, again. "Ginny has no culpability in these crimes. Her only mistake was that she trusted too easily. I will not have her slandered, particularly not by the true villain of this tale. But tell me, Tom Riddle, why you wished to speak with me, particularly."

He was gaining control of the conversation, and clearly Riddle knew it; his eyes narrowed, and he glared, but seemed to take pains to seem less affected than he was. Psychopaths were all the same, Harry mused. They needed to always have control over _everything_. They did not do well with wild cards, unexpected outcomes, with _chance_. Now, Riddle had the choice of redirecting the conversation, away from his own desired topic, or of seeming to obey Harry's order.

That topic must be _very_ important. "Ginny Weasley told me all about you, Harry Potter. Your whole, _fascinating_ history. Tell me, how is it that you survived the Killing Curse, cast by Lord Voldemort, when you were only a baby. Tell me how you defeated Lord Voldemort. The longer you talk, the longer you stay aliv_e."_

He had turned it back around, issued his own command. But Harry, unlike Tom, was not beholden to the idea of always being in control. He was used to letting others dictate the flow of conversation, occasionally interjecting his piece (unless he were at the Dursleys). Harry sought to retain control of his own mind, his own actions, and not to dictate those of others. (Not anymore?) And all he needed, right now, was time enough for Mother's armour to solidify around him. But he couldn't cut things too close. Ginny would not last forever. Better to start the battle before the armour was fully formed than to wait too long, and lose her forever. Still, one thing would not come clear….

"What concern is it for you, how it is that I survived when I might have died? Is it an escape of that Curse for which you seek? What interest is there for you, for, of all things, events long after your time?"

Riddle laughed again, and that laugh was too familiar. Almost, Harry could put a context to it, was starting to piece together the answer to his own question, even as Riddle spoke.

"Ah, yes, yes. You are as clever as Ginny Weasley described you. But you don't know that _Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future_, Harry Potter."

He raised his index finger, and began to trace letters in the air, that shimmered gold, glowing in the torchlit room. _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. The letters hung suspended in the air for a minute. Then he tapped the letter"v", and the letters rearranged themselves. Harry stared. That was where he'd heard the laugh before: in his dreams of green light, and _badness_. He hadn't had cause to think of them in quite some time.

"You see?" asked Tom in a whisper. "It was a name I was already using in my school days—only amongst my closest friends, of course. Did you think I would keep the name of my filthy muggle father forever, I in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself? No, I had to fashion a new name, a name that wizards everywhere would _fear_ to speak, when I became the greatest wizard alive!"

A strange calm settled over Harry. So. This was the teenage Lord Voldemort, was it? "Tom Riddle" was Voldemort's true name, the name he had sought from Dumbledore only last year? Well, _Riddle_ shouldn't have told him that. Now, Harry had the edge, he knew. For Riddle knew of Harry only secondhand, from Ginny, who rather idolised, but little understood, him. But Harry had fought Lord Voldemort himself, last year. He'd watched him, spoken with him, knew how he fought, knew how he thought, knew what made him tick.

It was a mistake, admitting his identity to Harry Potter. Almost as great was the confirmation, after a few seconds, that Riddle had _no_ knowledge of what had happened last year, when he asked, just as Voldemort had,

"What is that? That glow about your hands? What sort of magic are you using?"

Harry smiled. That threw Riddle off—he even stumbled, although, incorporeal as he was, there were no obstacles to his advance, no stone could trip him, for he made no contact with the floor.

"You are _not_ the greatest wizard alive," he said, in a would-be pleasant voice. "_That_ is Dumbledore. Everyone knows it. You, on the other hand, are a broken, formless wraith. And you have no nose. Defeated by a baby of only fifteen months.

"You ask me what magic this is about me. You ask how I survived, that night. Well, the answer to both happens to be the same: my Mother's love. My mother died to save me. And the protection of her sacrifice lives on in my very blood."

"I see…yes, a blood sacrifice, powerful magic, love a powerful countercurse. That makes sense. To think, I thought there might be something special about _you_ in particular."

And although Riddle had interrupted what Harry had been about to say, he cocked his head, inquisitive, seeking for the answer, as the silver fire of his mother's love flowed over his arms, down his legs, and spread upwards, forming the familiar battle armour he'd seen in so many dreams, had _worn_ in so many dreams. Loki seemed to have a knack for figuring out what made people tick, and he'd done the work for Harry, here.

Just a few more minutes.

"Oh? And why is that?" said Harry, as if indifferent to Riddle's opinion of him, standing with the armour continuing to circulate through his blood, still shimmering silver. He knew it took a few minutes to form.

He began to form the familiar buckler as he waited. He might not be able to create a weapon, but he would at least have a second form of defence.

"Are you an idiot after all, Potter? Look at us! Both orphans, both prodigiously gifted in magic, doubtless the first two parselmouths to attend Hogwarts since the great Salazar Slytherin himself…why, we even _look_ somewhat similar."

He cocked his head in a disdainful way that let Harry know he had noticed Harry's hair. Good thing Harry didn't consult with villains as to his choices in fashion.

But…somewhere beneath the stillness of his focused mind, Tom Riddle's words caused him to wince, to remember how he himself had compared the two of them, when he had been observing Tom's memory in the pensieve.

Of course, as it was _this boy_ who had orphaned Harry, had created that commonality, perhaps his words held less weight than they otherwise would have. He wondered what had become of Riddle's parents. There had been a Dark Lord fifty years ago, by the name of Grindelwald. Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card claimed that Dumbledore had defeated the Dark Lord Grindelwald in a duel…but that was long after Riddle was born, judging by the date on the diary. Was there such a commonality here? His intuition said that that was not the case.

"But now I know that it was only luck that saved you from me, after all. As for Dumbledore: you say that he is such a great wizard, but where is he now? He's been driven from Hogwarts by the mere _memory_ of me!" Riddle gave a predatory grin at his last quasi-pun. Harry glared right back at him, a glare that somehow bypassed his utter poise, filled with the roiling rage just beneath the surface. Dumbledore's parting words echoed in his head: _Help will always be given at Hogwarts, for those who need it_. Was he not acting as Dumbledore's agent even now?

_You will find that I have left this school only when none remain who are loyal to me._

"Gone? He is far from gone, Riddle. His legacy lives on in us who remain. We champion his cause, and his dream persists, his dream of a protected, safe Hogwarts. And whatever kept your present-day self from these hallowed grounds thwarts you still. He is not as gone as you might think."

A strange, haunting melody filled the air, seeming to have no origin. Harry could hear it, with his overly keen hearing, but Riddle missed it entirely.

"You think that I value my life most highly, as you prize yours. But you are mistaken. I am no stranger to Death, and I do not fear it, as you do," Harry said, giving Riddle a wide smile.

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "I fear _nothing_. I am Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard of our age! You have told me what I desired to know. If you are Death's companion, then I will gladly reunite you."

He turned to the statue, at the feet of which Ginny lay, and Harry could feel the tension in the air. The magic of the Chamber of Secrets, he could tell, was twisted and warped. He could feel that wrongness permeating the air, now, even with his seventh sense mostly closed. He thought, briefly, of Mother's warning about the hidden underbelly of the palace, how venturing there would overwhelm him, how using it would twist him into something evil and vile as it was. Had the Chamber made Tom Riddle what he was, or was it the other way around? Or had their mutual evils fed off one another?

Time to contemplate that later. For now, he watched, at first nonplussed, and then settling into a ready stance, as Riddle called, "_Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four_."

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the nature of the magic woven into the words, analysing it, mentally cataloguing what he learnt about it as he listened. He knew that Riddle must be speaking _parseltongue_, but, as usual, it sounded like English to him. However, if he could just unravel the mystery of how it worked…perhaps he could learn how to speak it willingly. After all, there was no snake here to guide Riddle's speech. He must be able to speak the language at will. Harry, on the other hand, needed an actual snake (except where the doors outside had allowed him to trick his mind into believing that there was an actual snake, of course).

He opened his eyes just as the great jaw of Slytherin dropped open, and something moved out of the depths into the dim torchlight. The basilisk. Frowning, Harry closed his eyes once more, hoping that Riddle was truly as harmless as he seemed. For the moment.

He could not risk keeping his eyes open, when "the beam of its eye" could kill. Shared eye-contact, that meant. And indirect eye-contact meant petrification. That, too, could not be risked, or he would have done as Perseus had, and used his shield as a guide.

His eyes opened, a reflex, when something dropped down over his head. It blocked his sight, too.

_Ah. We meet again, Harry Potter_, said a voice. Harry paused in forming the buckler. _This_ was unexpected.

_…Are you the __**Sorting Hat**_? he asked.

"See what Dumbledore sends to assist his loyal defender. Is that…Dumbledore's pet bird…and the old school Sorting Hat?"

Riddle couldn't believe it, either. But he didn't seem able to hear Fawkes's haunting song. It must have been Fawkes who had dropped the Hat onto his head…and he must have had a reason….

_You do seem to be in a bit of a fix, don't you? A twelve-year-old fighting a basilisk…even Gryffindor would never have stood for that. But you are not just any twelve-year-old, are you, Your Grace?_

And there went the hope that the Hat had forgotten that. At least with the Hat covering his eyes, he dared to keep them open. He resumed working on his shield.

_And it seems as though you've even made some effort to follow my advice—not all the advice I give is heeded, you know. But there's only __so__ much an old Hat __like__ me can do…._

Harry sighed, feeling rather than seeing that the armour had finished solidifying. He opened his seventh sense as wide as he could, trying to pinpoint the location of a magical monster by its magic alone.

_How may I assist you, my lord? You are __currently__ the protector of this school—its champion, I might say. Tell me what you most need, and I will assist you._

Harry considered. He wondered why he wasn't feeling any of the Basilisk's emotions, or hearing its voice, as he had before. He wondered where the monster was.

_Will you be my eyes for me? Is that within your ability? And…you can read minds, correct? Is it possible to block emotions and thoughts—?_

_I started working on __**that**__ the moment I touched your head. Not much good going into a battle when you feel every blow you strike as if it hit you, now is it? But you should learn occlumency. Duck!_

Harry thought he probably looked quite foolish, as if he had a pointy hat for a head, but it didn't matter, because he could feel how narrowly the blow of the basilisk's tail had missed him.

"_Kill him! Kill him!_" Riddle was crying, sounding rather deranged. He was, of course, speaking parseltongue. The understanding of how the language was made was laid bare before Harry, as the threads of a multicoloured cloth, he could see warp and weft. He understood.

_Is that your understanding of magic, my lord?_ asked the Hat, sounding impressed. _Even the Founders could not see Magic as __clearly__…._

He could replicate it, he _knew_….

_I feel privileged __merely__ to have witnessed this. Very well, Your Grace, what else do you require of me?_

_What is occlumency?_ he couldn't help asking, but then he shook his head. More pressing concerns. He dodged to the side as the Hat called another warning, and he began to synchronise the Hat's warnings and observations with his seventh sense's indications of the basilisk's location. Little to work with, but some.

_I need a __**weapon**_, he said. _There are few spells that could harm such a creature as I have read about…._

The Hat _hmm_ed in reply. _Ah! Good bird, Fawkes, smart, too, but you already read that when you researched phoenixes after your meeting with Dumbledore. You know that they are clever, and loyal…. But if you could see what Fawkes is doing—_

The basilisk was hissing in pain. Harry recognised some of the words, but most were indistinct gibberish. The reptilian equivalents of "ouch", perhaps. What _was_ Fawkes doing?

_You can look at the battlefield now, my lord_, said the Hat, cheerfully. _Fawkes has…rendered the basilisk's eyes useless to it._

Harry considered saying something about how he, in fact, couldn't—not unless he wanted to give up the Hat's defence on his _mind_. But thinking was as good as speaking, for a mind-reading Hat. The Hat ignored his musings to continue, as Harry now warily approached the writhing basilisk, and Riddle cried, _"You can still smell him—kill him!_" which was quite insensitive to the incredible pain the basilisk must be feeling….

Harry lifted up the brim of the Hat to see the basilisk turn to face him across the room. It was huge, and white, and its two yellow eyes were oozing dark blood. Huh.

_As for a weapon,_ the Hat continued, _as you are the guardian-protector of the school, I suppose I can entrust you with this… you are, after all, fighting __**Slytherin's**__ monster. I think Gryffindor would approve of my choice. But understand that I am giving this weapon to __**you**__. I do not want it to fall into hands I have not chosen, for it to be used by the unworthy._

_Then, just between Thor and me, if I ever find him_, Harry said, with a smile, as Riddle continued to screech, and the basilisk approached. He was grateful for the Hat's defence on his mind. He couldn't imagine the agony the basilisk must be experiencing right now.

_Very well, Your Grace. I know you know how to use this—and you no longer need me to cover your eyes. Good luck._

The Hat seemed to constrict around his head, and something heavy landed on it, making him see stars. It was then that he realised the obvious: he would have to remove the Hat in order to retrieve whatever weapon it had just given him. "Good luck", indeed.

He took a deep breath, bent down to set his buckler on the floor, and whipped the Hat off his head, with one hand, catching the sword by cutting himself along the blade with his already injured hand as he did. He blamed the surprise, and the sudden crushing pain of the thrashing basilisk, for this.

A glance into the air high above revealed what at first looked to be a floating fire, before Harry discerned flapping wings, and realised that it was Fawkes, recovered from burning day, and _glorious_. He stared.

The pain would level out, he knew. He could work through it, as _Loki_ could work through it. He'd just have to borrow some of that strength…that could make things a bit interesting…. The Hat was right: with the basilisk's main weapon gone, he needed no further assistance from the Hat, save for what he held in his dripping hand.

He grabbed hold of the leathern hilt with his left hand, the weaker of his two hands, dropping the Hat to the ground with a silent apology. He sucked on the injured webbing for a second, and then switched the sword into his right hand, and picked up the buckler in his left.

He ignored the pain, the rage, the fear of the King of Serpents. He stood, again, feeling stronger than he had whilst he had been wearing the Hat. He didn't know why, perhaps it was that he could see, perhaps it was that borrowed strength, but he felt suddenly full of confidence. He versus the basilisk. That was not the worst odds he had ever faced. Fawkes trilled a triumphant little tune, high above; perhaps that was it. But he knew that there was no need to invoke that part of him that he called "Loki", regardless of whether or not it actually _was_ a god. He could do this on his own, he knew. Of course…he'd known that _before_….

He smiled, and, rather than rushing the enemy, took a moment to survey the current odds. Riddle, glowering, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, stood off to the side, watching. The basilisk writhed in pain on the floor.

"So, you fight a legendary monster with a muggle weapon, like a mudblood. This is why mudbloods shouldn't be _allowed_ in Hogwarts. They disgrace wizarding customs with their filthy _muggle_ ideas, and—"

He gave Riddle a cold smile. "Oh. You believe this to be a _muggle_ weapon? You betray your own ignorance, Riddle."

He turned back to the basilisk. What he was about to try probably wouldn't work, but…hey! At least he could say he'd tried the blatantly obvious.

"_Don't kill me_," he told the snake, now that he could see again. The snake stiffened, perceiving the new voice, and then renewed its thrashing.

_Pain_, it hissed. _Hurts. Hungry. You do not bear Master's blood. You are an intruder in his secret place. You must die. The boy is right. And yet_… it stilled again, momentarily. _There is something different about you. Something about your scent that I do not recognise…_.

Riddle took a step towards Harry, and then seemed to think better of it.

"How _dare_ you? The basilisk is the embodiment of the greatness of Slytherin House. How dare you, a _gryffindor_, attempt to control it?"

Harry's smile broadened.

"Do you question my worth, little wizard?" he said, the words strange on his tongue, despite having spoken them before. But he knew the effect they would have on Riddle, the way he would pause, re-evaluate the situation, with both the basilisk and Harry suggesting that Harry was not quite what he appeared.

"You speak as if you aren't a wizard, yourself."

"Perhaps I am not," Harry said, with a smirk. The basilisk moaned, pain made his eyes water as he marched towards the King of Snakes. But they were all three of them more aware than was usual of each other's whereabouts. The basilisk reacted to his proximity by swinging the end of its tail at him, trying to bat him away. He dodged to the side, and kept going. The shield was seeing little use, thus far.

The next time the tail aimed towards him, he swung the sword at it, cutting clean through the tip, and sank to his knees, briefly, as he tried to adjust again. He needed to be more careful.

But now, the basilisk was reluctant to use one of its few remaining weapons. Still, its great girth was a weapon of its own. As it tried to draw its body into tight coils around him, he thought of a bubble, a wall of protective ice. It surrounded him, preventing the snake from breaking through, but draining his energy, and stalling his progress. He frowned. Riddle laughed.

Fawkes had removed the threat of its eyes, Harry himself had cut off the tail, and its immense girth had not availed it. That left only one weapon, the weapon that all snakes possessed. It launched itself at Harry's wall of ice, its head bursting through with astonishing speed, shattering the ice like glass.

As the great head lunged for him, Harry drove the sword up to the hilt through the roof of its mouth, into its brain…if a magical snake had one of those. It must, because it screamed, and thrashed, and bucked.

At first, he thought the immense pain in his arm was due to the shared emotion connecting him to the snake. Then he realised that it was in the wrong place, and then he caught sight of the fang sunk deep into his left forearm, having burnt a hole through the armour, filling his veins with deadly poison even as the snake itself fell over, dead, wrenching the fang from its mooring.

Harry's legs gave out under him. The world began to fade out.

_So__ it is to be a mutual kill, then. Victorious in my defeat…but perhaps Ginny shall live…._

Fawkes dove down, or he saw a flash of bright-red-and-orange approaching at great speed…maybe it was Mother's hair. Mother had red hair.

"Here lies Harry Potter," came Riddle's mocking voice, although Harry could no longer see its owner. Everything was beginning to seem very far away. Riddle had regained his poise with Harry's mortal wound. "Defeated by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You're _dying_, Harry Potter. Dying. Even Dumbledore's bird knows it…."

Fawkes landed before him. He could feel the heat breathing off the phoenix's body. He reached out to touch it, wondering what it would feel like. Soft as feathers, scorching as flames?

"Thank you, Fawkes. Please…find a way to stop Riddle…and…save Ginny…."

His hand was so, so heavy. He let it fall. He closed his eyes; he couldn't see anyway—what was the point of keeping them open…?

The world faded out.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, and Riddle was much nearer. A curse sprang from his hand and hit the phoenix. Riddle's glare was every bit as venomous as the poisonous snake Harry had just slain. He realised that the pain had gone, that he could see and hear.

How?

"Bloody phoenix," Riddle snarled. "How could I have forgotten that their tears—"

Ah. The incredible healing properties of phoenix tears. Still. Harry remembered how it had been, when Loki had fallen from the Rainbow Bridge. How he'd landed too hard on a foreign planet. The impact had been too much even for his body, perhaps especially after so much time without food or water, or sleep…. The world had faded out, and then, the next thing he knew, he was in a different, darker, enclosed space, with a giant looming over him. Thanos.

He'd just _died_ again. But Fawkes, the bird of immortality and resurrection, had _resurrected_ him. Had brought him back from death. He suspected that the bird could only do that in very specific circumstances—it was mostly an extension of his healing powers. It had banished the poison that had killed him, healed his wounds, dragged his fleeing soul back into his body.

As Thanos had, for less benevolent reasons.

"Fawkes…" he said, but couldn't continue. What was there to say? "Thank you."

Was this a third chance, or did it still count as a second one?

No matter. He raised himself to his feet, aided by using the sword as a crutch. He must have wrenched it out of the snake's mouth as he'd died….

"Well, I prefer it thus, anyway…just you and me, Harry Potter. You and me. A rematch of even odds. Yes…."

Riddle was either talking to himself, or to Harry. Really, it didn't matter which. They seemed to be interchangeable concepts with this one. More important was the sentiment of those words. He'd just _died_. Didn't he get a break?


	48. Something in Common

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Something in Common**

For Harry, still full of adrenaline after the recent battle, time seemed to slow again, after it had _just_ regained its normal pace. Another battle, hot on the heels of the first.

But did it have to be a battle? His seventh sense was still wide open, owing to a need to keep tabs on the basilisk, and on Tom Riddle. Particularly now that he knew that Riddle _could_ attack using magic. Was it that he could have before, and chose not to, to trick Harry? Or could he only now, after draining so much of Ginny's soul? But speaking of that…what bound Riddle into _this_ world, the physical world, freed him from the confines of the diary into which he was bound, was _Ginny's soul_, which he was busy stealing. If Harry could just somehow block that, destroy the bond….

A beam of darkness connected Riddle's solidifying body with the diary lying at Ginny's feet—Harry could see it. But it was too thick to break by any standard means. He sent a wave of ice through it, but the ice was of the physical plane, and, to all sight, passed right through.

Riddle's lack of response to that assault, except for a puzzled furrowing of the brows, suggested he was not aware of the stream of darkness, himself, although it was sustaining him. Otherwise, he would have worked to protect it.

Harry's head jerked to the diary, and Riddle followed his line of sight, frowning, and began to stalk towards Harry, throwing out curses as he went.

Well, if he was solid enough to curse Harry, perhaps….

The torture curse hit the buckler with the weight of a punch. It reminded him of last year, the mistakes he'd made, learnt from. The pain….

But, miraculously, that pain, the pain that warned him of Voldemort's presence, wasn't present now. Why not?

He shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Riddle, as he began to back towards the diary, still with the buckler up to absorb his blows. He raised the sword he'd taken from the Sorting Hat, and focused energy through it as he might a wand.

"_Stupefy_!" he cried. Riddle froze in place, as the red light hit him. Yes. Perhaps _that_. This way, while he continued to feed off Ginny's energy, at least it wouldn't be _squandered_.

Still… Harry did not trust the man not to be faking it. He didn't know just how much the armour could defend against—and there was a hole in it from the basilisk fang. He glared at the fang, where it lay, a few feet away, and then blinked as Fawkes swooped down, dropping a familiar black book in front of him.

"Are we a team, then, Guy?" he asked the phoenix. The bird trilled in response, cocking its head at him, and took to the air again.

He surveyed his surroundings, again. Riddle had managed to come far too close, and the basilisk was still a few feet beyond the discarded fang, dead. The rest of his line of sight was eclipsed by the thick black cord, with all its little tendril-fibres wisping off it. He frowned at it, considering the merits of closing his seventh sense, just a bit.

A thought occurred to him. What if he tried to cut through the cord with the sword? But, no. What would become of all of Ginny's soul-stuff now fueling the projection of Tom Riddle?

But if he destroyed the source….

He impaled the diary with the sword, with no ceremony or fanfare, watching as the stream of darkness abruptly began to undulate, and then shattered, and Riddle faded away where he stood, leaving no trace of his existence. Ink spurted from the book, despite its darkness far too like blood for Harry's tastes. Across the room, at the statue's feet, he could hear Ginny take in a great gulp of air. He glanced over at her, saw a white luminescence surround her, very like the one that usually surrounded his mother.

Soul-stuff, returned to her. After a few seconds, the glow subsided. Harry turned back to the ruined diary, and stuffed it into the pocket of his cloak.

He began to think at a furious pace. Ginny was still unconscious, but for how long? He was glad that she would wake, but….

Well, for one thing, he didn't want her to see the armour. He wasn't sure how she would take it, or whether he could swear her to secrecy about it. It was not something he wanted made known, particularly not to Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or anyone else with the intelligence to guess at its nature, and the power to do something about it.

But, beyond that… the Sorting Hat had given him a gift, had entrusted him with the protection of the sword, whatever it was. He did not intend to abuse that trust. He was rather in the Hat's debt, for putting him in gryffindor, and for entrusting him with this weapon.

Also, he had to admit, it was rather nice to have a weapon that he knew how to use, to put that old training to use. If he ever crossed paths with Thor, he would deny it with vehemence, but as it was….

Well, it was reassurance—a reassuring, familiar weight, and he didn't _want_ to let it out of his sight. He didn't trust anyone else with it. Maybe Ron and Hermione. Even more doubtful, maybe Dumbledore. But if he could keep it….

An idea struck him, and he walked over to the discarded fang at a brisk pace. He remembered his shrinking and enlargement charms. And he had been practicing with the other sort of magic. He could do this, he was sure.

He needed a scabbard, he decided. Had there been any skeletons or loose rocks here in the Chamber, he would have transfigured one. As it was, he made a sort of makeshift one out of ice, encasing the sword in water and then freezing it, and then frowning in concentration. He held the sword in one hand, and the basilisk fang in the other, and compared the two.

Yes, this part would be pretty tricky, but he could _definitely_ handle that. But for such a complicated illusion—one that affected sight and _touch_…. He sighed, shook his head, and laid them down side by side.

Desire. Focus. He watched as they shimmered, seeming to switch places, and he frowned, wondering how he intended to keep a spell going when he was, himself, far away. Say, at the Dursleys.

His ice had had staying power. He'd just have to create a self-sustaining cover for sword and fang.

This was strangely difficult to do. He settled for adding a layer of substance—pure magic, around each, wrapping it around them. That should sustain the illusion…at least for a few years. Long enough for him to graduate. He hoped.

He shrank the sword down, and put it in his pocket. He turned back to glance again at a still-unconscious Ginny before picking up the fang, and then made a detour to pick up the Sorting Hat, and put it in his pocket with Riddle's diary, before curving his path around to meet Ginny.

She still hadn't woken, although he thought she probably should have, with Tom's defeat. Had he retreated to his diary? Harry'd seen the halo around Ginny's form—the returned soul substance. But perhaps it wasn't enough.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted her up, carrying her in his arms over to the front of the statue, and leant back against Slytherin's shoe. He laid her down carefully before the statue, and then knelt next to her. If nothing else, being carried—no matter how careful he'd been not to jostle her—should have woken her.

He bit his lip, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He hadn't realised, absurd though it was to make the mistake twice, that he cared whether or not she lived or died. Or rather, he'd known, but he hadn't realised that he cared about _her_.

He bowed his head, glancing half-heartedly at the hole in his armour, how the basilisk fang had burnt a hole all around where it had penetrated, and then had also burnt away his robes—like acid. He'd died. Perhaps he should be taking this time to come to terms with that fact. He'd used a bit of the other magic, and it had worked. He could think about that, too. But his mind kept coming back to the question: why didn't Ginny wake?

And thoughts of the other magic brought back to mind another time, when he'd noticed how flexible armour was, and taken up vigil after draining himself to dangerous levels, to keep his brother alive.

But that wasn't him. Perhaps, it had never happened at all.

Why wasn't Ginny waking? The next time he spoke to Mother, he'd have to ask her to teach him how to heal. He had now realised the inevitability of being dragged into life-threatening situations his every year at Hogwarts. He needed to be ready. For now, however…he had to do the only thing he knew _how_ to do (and that was iffy).

With a sigh, he lifted her up to cradle her in his arms, against the statue. He couldn't risk dropping her, after all, if he got too engrossed in what he was doing, stopped paying attention to the outside world. And he rather suspected that such proximity was required—physical contact, that was. He could have taken her hand, but….

Well, this felt right, somehow, and he wasn't about to question his intuition. He reopened his seventh sense, and opened his sixth sense as far as it could go, and, following the guidance of that unforgettable dream, he channeled his _own_ lifeforce into Ginny, trying to replenish what she had lost. Not just soul, not just body, but a mixture of both. Riddle had very nearly killed her, and even the return of the rest of her life energy wouldn't repair all the damage Riddle had done. And then, too, he'd used magic, magic he must have funneled out of Ginny's lifeforce….

Fawkes had his limits, Harry knew, and here was the proof. He'd made no move to try to return Ginny's lifeforce. Why? Because he didn't care? No. Because it was not within his power. He was, despite how incredible even the non-legendary phoenix was, still only a mortal creature. But Harry….

Harry knew he didn't have the power to resurrect the dead, as Fawkes had to a limited degree. But what he was doing now, he admitted to himself, was beyond the abilities of an ordinary wizard. He doubted Dumbledore could do this either. The other magic wasn't wizarding magic.

It could still be accidental magic, though, right?

And as he watched these thoughts pass the backdrop of his mind, he continued to focus on channeling magic into Ginny.

He could see it now, the hole he was filling in her heart. The substance she'd _lost_ to Riddle. Unlike Thor, who was suffering from a mortal wound, when all the energy you funneled in just flowed back out, Ginny needed a mere transfusion, which was difficult enough.

He felt her begin to stir in his arms as that hole into which he'd been funneling substance closed. He opened his eyes, as exhaustion began to creep over him. He'd drained quite a bit of his own energy, all told.

Ginny opened her eyes, brow furrowing as she frowned in confusion.

"Where—where am I?" She looked to her left, first, and gasped, as she took in the Chamber of Secrets. Of course, its most defining feature was in fact to her _right_, and behind Harry. Maybe the basilisk was evidence enough.

She seemed to understand anyway, bursting into tears.

"Shh. It's alright now, Ginny," Harry said, softly. She started, but he didn't smirk at the response. She must be terrified…he didn't want to alarm her more. "Riddle's dead, same as the basilisk. You're safe."

He smiled at her, as her head jerked to the side to stare at him.

"Harry?" she asked, as she had once before. "…Harry Potter?"

His smile widened. "No. Harry Houdini," he replied, with a tilt of his head. She crossed her arms in a pout, and then seemed to realise the position she was in, turning beet red. Almost directly after _that_, all the colour drained from her face.

She managed to surge to her feet, backing away from him. He sighed, and knelt beside her, with her, on the floor. She was on her knees, her hands covering her eyes as she wept. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Mother's armour had gone, again.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," she wailed. "I tried to tell you at breakfast the other day, but Tom wouldn't let me…. He made me do those things, I didn't want to; I didn't know! I was too weak to fight him off—"

Harry's eyes narrowed at that last statement. He turned to face her with his most serious look. "That he overpowered you does not make you _weak_, Ginny Weasley," he said. "Your only mistake was to ever trust in him at all, and how were you to know any better? I wrote in the diary, too, and I could no more tell the danger than you."

"But Dad says—"

"'Never trust something that can think for itself, if you can't see where it keeps its brain', perhaps?" Harry interjected. Ginny bowed her head.

"All this, all the fear this school has been under, and all the suspicion you've suffered—it's all been because of me! This is all my fault! I wish I could just—"

"Look at me, Ginny," Harry said, keeping his voice calm and non-judgemental. "This is _not_ your fault. It is as you said: Riddle _made_ you do those things. And he has much to answer for. But I shall never forgive him this."

"You risked your life to save me, after everything I did—" Ginny was saying. "But you don't understand! You're not listening to me! I don't _deserve_ to be saved, after what I did—"

Harry frowned, and then immediately leveled his expression out again. This was all sounding _far_ too familiar. "But I _do_ understand, Ginny. I know _exactly_ how you feel."

She turned to him, eyes narrowed, looking rather petulant, but her expression faltered. She seemed suddenly unsure. "What—what do you mean?" she asked.

"You were possessed. Something was controlling you. I have some experience with that, myself."

He bowed his head. "The shame. The remorse. The sense that you _just weren't strong enough_. I know exactly how you feel, Ginny. Only, I think you might be less at fault for your actions than I was mine. But ask Ron. Tell him I told you to ask him, if need be. He knows better than I. I don't even remember—"

"There's gaps in my memory, too!" Ginny said. "I don't suppose I'll ever fully remember what happened, when he—it was like he shut me out of my own _mind_, and I—"

"I know," Harry said, raising his head to meet her gaze. He shook his head, and held out a hand to stop her from continuing. "Ginny, no one will blame you for what happened. I will see to that. But, when you're ready, we should go back. Ron is probably about ready to try to break down the door to the Chamber of Secrets by now."

Ginny just knelt there, staring at him with an unfamiliar, new expression. It was as if he'd become real to her, as if she were finally seeing _him_, and not the legend or myth. That she understood that he was a person, and that he had his own history, his own strengths and weaknesses, triumphs and defeats.

"Riddle has given us something in _common_," Harry said. "And he has yet to answer for that. He shall pay. Someday. But for now, I'm sure your family is worried about you."

He stood, and then, thinking of his mother, bent down, held out a hand to help her up. "Come, Ginny. It will not become any easier if you delay. And your family—and I—will fight for you. And if ever…" he closed his eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath, "if ever you need to talk about this, I'll listen."

She took his hand, with the greatest hesitation, wary, and he was patient. He stood stock still, and waited for her to take that hand, and pulled her gently to her feet.

"Can you walk?" he asked her, and she bit her lip, and nodded.

"The diary—" she began, and he reached into his pocket with the other hand, pulling it out to show it to her. She glanced down and away from it, and he stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Wait a second," he ordered her, and she must have been surprised when he walked around the side of Slytherin's shoe and came back with a silver sword.

"What—where did you?"

"Get a sword?" he finished, with a wry smile. "The Sorting Hat named me the guardian-protector of Hogwarts, and I asked it for a weapon with which to defeat the basilisk. It gave me a sword. I don't know anything more about it, really."

He smiled at her. She frowned.

"You're being nice to me again," she said.

"Sorry," he said, with a lopsided smirk. Ginny glowered, and then beamed at him.

He decided that Ginny made no sense, and that he didn't mind.

* * *

They made their way back out of the Chamber of Secrets. Ron had cleared a path whilst Harry had been fighting for his life (or, more like, _Ginny's_), and the rockfall had been reduced to rubble. Ron had made short work of it, and, by his expression, vented some frustration as well. Harry nodded to him, as they emerged from the Chamber.

"Harry!" cried Ron, spotting Harry first. "You're alive! But Ginny—"

Harry ignored the way his voice wavered at the end. In response to the unspoken question, he pulled Ginny forwards into the torchlight.

Ron came forward, then, and, abandoning all pretence or self-dignity, threw his arms around both of them, almost crushing them to death in a bear hug. Harry held the dangerous sharp object in his right hand as far away and back as he could, trying to avoid so much as scratching either Ron or Ginny. When making his plan, he should have accounted for Ron's exuberance.

"Might I remind you that we are still alive, and therefore need to breathe? Also, I would prefer not to break any ribs, and I think Ginny is of the same mind. In other words: Ron, ease up. You're crushing us."

He was already pushing against Ron's arms with his free hand, to soften the pressure for Ginny, who could little afford any stress to her weakened body. She needed to be checked over by Madam Pomfrey.

But first, they had to get out of here. Ron drew back, holding them at arm's length, and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You fought the basilisk, and lived to tell the tale. Well done, little brother."

This was an assumption, in two parts, but a reasonable one. Ron knew of the basilisk, but not of Riddle. They had come down here expecting to encounter the basilisk. Thus, Harry rolled his eyes, and made sure to put some distance between them before he said the dangerous part of his next response.

"I see you've been listening to the Twins," he said, nodding. "It took you surprisingly long to start calling me that—Right on time, Guy!" He interrupted himself, as Fawkes came swooping in from…somewhere. Harry wasn't entirely sure that Fawkes couldn't just fly through walls, except then you would think that he…oh what did it matter?

Before he could lose his nerve, he ran for the entrance to the passageway, the still open slide, calling out after him, "Oh, and I didn't quite survive, either! The basilisk killed me, but Fawkes brought me back."

It was, after all, important for Ron to have the whole story. But, he could practically feel Ron's mood sinking from here.

"Do you mean to tell me," Ron began, with a deadly dangerous voice that made Harry wonder if he were about to die yet again, "that you _died_ again?"

Oops. Perhaps he should have waited a bit longer.

"Details, details," he said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Are you going to stand there whining, or are we going to leave this place? What happened to Lockhart, anyway?"

Lockhart was sufficient distraction. Ron glared down at the floor of the corridor as if it had personally offended him. "I fear I may have lost sight of him as I was clearing the way for you," he said, before turning back for Ginny. "Ginny, do you need any help?"

She shook her head, tossing her hair back from her face. Already it looked brighter, healthier, livelier.

"A pity," Harry drawled. "Well, are you two coming?"

Ginny approached, walking on her own power, with a slight, psychosomatic, limp. Ron followed, as if to catch her if she fell.

"How are we to leave this place? I see no means by which to climb the slide again—"

Harry smiled. "Guy will help us. Don't you know about phoenixes? They're brave, loyal, have amazing healing powers, and can carry extremely heavy loads. We're nothing next to Guy's maximum load. All aboard the Fawkes Express!"

Fawkes held out a talon, and Harry grabbed hold with the hand not carrying the "sword".

"Harry, is that a _sword_?" Ron asked. Harry said nothing. He'd have to explain to _someone_ what they'd just done. They'd hear the fuller version of the tale soon enough.


	49. All's Well (for Now)

**author's note:** upon further reflection (and talking to my mother) I think I'll continue posting my fics. Why _should_ I abandon them, just because someone who never read any of my fics accuses me of plagiarism? If you aren't willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, even, why should I listen to your assumptions?

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Nine: All's Well (for Now)**

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing outside the door of Headmaster Dumbledore's office with Professor McGonagall frowning at them, owing to their recent flagrant rule-breaking. Harry was still trying to understand the news. Dumbledore had _returned_, whilst he was down battling the basilisk? Now he wanted to speak with them, and with Ginny, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were both waiting along with him?

Myrtle wished he'd died so that he could share her bathroom?

There was an almost surprising lack of attention paid to the absent Defence teacher. Perhaps Dumbledore had had his measure long before, and knew to expect him to flee. Harry frowned at that thought.

"Come in," called Dumbledore, interrupting his mental wanderings. Rather than giving Harry the opportunity to brace himself, Professor McGonagall threw the door open herself, and, in her usual way, stormed inside before anyone else, knowing that they must follow.

Ron glanced at Harry, as if to ensure that he was still alive, and then held open the door, that Harry or Ginny might enter first. For once.

Ginny pushed past Harry on unsteady feet, the sight of her crying parents enough to give her the strength to make her way forward. Harry let her go, carefully avoiding scratching her with, you know, the pointy object he still had in his hands. McGonagall had either not noticed it, or thought that its confiscation was better left to Dumbledore.

Ron glanced at Harry again, silently asking who should go next. Harry folded his arms (or approximated the gesture, with his right hand still out to the side dangling), and jerked his head towards the door. He knew that he himself would not be able to escape—it would never be allowed—but he still needed the time to gather his thoughts. He'd been planning what to say as soon as he'd made sure that Ginny was alright. They needed to know the truth.

Or at least, most of it. But only with the truth in the open might whoever Dobby's masters were be punished. And perhaps, when that time came, he could also reward Dobby for his efforts. Those plans were left unfinished. But, he knew what to say for the moment, at least.

He steeled himself, and pushed the door open. The scene that met his eyes was pretty standard Weasley fare, with Arthur Weasley resting a hand on Ginny's back, the only part of her he could reach, as Mrs. Weasley was crushing her to death. That must be where Ron got his bear hugs from, Harry mused.

Ron himself stood to the side, with Fawkes, who looked around the room before settling into his cage. McGonagall stood to the side of Dumbledore's desk, glaring at the door, as Harry walked in. And behind the desk, looking serene, the truest fixture of Hogwarts: Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry bowed his head, looking down, self-conscious now.

McGonagall caught sight of him, then. "Mr. Potter. So good of you to finally join us." Harry stared at the floor, and said nothing.

"Ron told us you saved Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said. "Oh, thank you, Harry, thank you. We were so worried…we heard the news, and we…well, you saved Ginny. Words are insufficient thanks."

"You gave me your home to stay in last summer," he said, not meeting her gaze. "I just did what anyone would have, in my position."

He missed the incredulous stares cast his way, eyes downcast as they were. Dumbledore, or someone, had set a number of beanbag chairs around the room. He sat down in one, careful as always to avoid stabbing anyone, himself included. That would be bad.

"Perhaps, Mr. Potter, you could explain to us just what happened. I think we all would like to know." McGonagall just _had_ to interfere, didn't she?

"Professor McGonagall—" Ron began. Trying to buy Harry time, perhaps. Trying to spare him, perhaps. He would never know.

"Mr. Weasley, that's enough from you. Mr. Potter?" she turned back to Harry. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Lemon drop?" asked Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. He held out the familiar, shallow bowl, and Harry took one, and unwrapped it. Ron hesitated, but took one as well.

"Albus, now is not the time—" McGonagall was saying. Harry ignored her.

"They're a muggle invention," Ron told his father, who brightened up, just a bit, and took one of the offered candies. The other two, the last two remaining, seemed to feel that they would be rude to decline. Harry gave the idea that he might have started a tiny trend a moment's thought, but no more grace than it deserved, and frowned. He'd _thought_ he'd planned exactly what to say, but….

"Where to begin?" he asked, spreading his hands wide. He didn't feel like explaining all the gory, gruesome details with the kindly Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He wanted to spare them as much as possible.

"I find that it's usually best to start at the beginning."

Yes, well, in such a case as this, where _was_ the beginning? Dobby, he decided. That was the closest he'd come to one.

And thus, he launched into his tale, explaining how Dobby had come to visit him over the summer, his cryptic warnings, pausing as his explanation about "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" came clear to Harry. Of course. Before Voldemort had become internationally infamous, no one would ever have feared the name "Tom Riddle"—and indeed, it still was not widely known. He frowned. Dobby needed to learn to be clearer, but had other faults needing more immediate correction.

He continued on, with a shrug, skipping over the closed barrier, which Dumbledore already knew about, and then, glancing in Ron's direction, silently asking for advice, he paused. Ron nodded, as if reading his mind, and Harry exhaled sharply. He told of the voice within the walls, of Hermione's detective work, that she had worked out that the basilisk had been using the plumbing, but had been petrified before she could reveal what she had learnt to Harry and Ron.

He glanced over at Ginny, trying to catch her eye, ask how she fared, see whether or not she was ready to discuss her role in this.

"What I am most curious about," said Dumbledore, "is how Voldemort could be possessing Ginny, when my sources say he is currently hiding in the forests of Albania."

Ginny flinched at the mention of the word "possessing", and Harry lifted his gaze for the first time, frowning at the professor.

"You-Know-Who? P—possess Ginny?" Mrs. Weasley stuttered, her face ashen, her voice quavering with suppressed emotion, as she tried to be brave for her only daughter. Ginny flinched again at the reminder, and Harry again was reminded of himself. That was not a good thing. Harry felt the need to rush back into things, to spare Ginny more talk of the matter, when she had only just begun to recover. Did her parents see how thin and frail she was?

He pulled the diary out of his pocket, along with the Sorting Hat, which he set on the desk first, holding it by the brim. Then he slammed the diary onto the desk with such violence that everyone except Ron jumped. Even Dumbledore's spindly instruments jumped.

"Did you stop to consider that speaking of such might be a sensitive topic for her, who only recently was still in his thrall? But _this_ is the answer to your question. This diary belonged to a 'T. M. Riddle', whose name I'm sure you know, although you were unwilling to share it when I asked you last year. Perhaps we might have avoided some of this, had you been more forthcoming."

His voice was harsh and sharp; full of bitter anger, he lashed out at Dumbledore as he could not Voldemort. Yet.

Ron came over to stand by him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Peace, little brother," he said. "It is too late to change what has already happened. I am certain that Dumbledore made what he viewed as the best choice at the time. He could not have predicted, any more than we, what was to come this year."

Harry bowed his head, looking down at the floor again, but now it was because he didn't trust himself not to lash out, if he were to look at Dumbledore and see that the man's eyes were still twinkling. Ginny was _suffering_; was he the only one who noticed?

"It's okay, Harry," Ginny said, and he turned to look at her. She was slumped in her mother's arms, still, head bowed so that her hair hid her face. Even her voice sounded defeated. Resigned.

It was impossible to see the state she'd been left in, and not be consumed by wrath, if you had any soul at all. And yet, as he looked at her, he felt something else begin to eat away at that. Guilt. Shame. Pity. He knew how she felt, but she was so strong! They talked about the sensitive issue as if she were made of iron, not glass, and she was up to the challenge, as Harry knew he never would be.

"He wrote in it when he was sixteen. Whatever he did to it, his…_lifeforce_, I suppose you could say, was preserved within it."

His voice was perhaps too level, too empty, too calm. He was weary, worn out from the recent ups and downs, from the battles he'd recently fought, from his use of the _other_ kind of magic. He wanted to go even to the Hospital Wing, and rest. But he kept on, because there was no other choice. He thought of another time, when he had kept on (but that wasn't him!) for no other reason but that the _Mercy_ of death was denied him.

He swallowed, looking down again, away from Ginny, feeling unworthy to be in the same room.

"I—I've been writing in it all year—and he's been writing back!" she said, her voice loud and clear, despite it all. Harry glanced over at her again, despite himself.

"Ginny! How many times have I told you? I've said 'Never trust something that can think for itself—'"

"Mr. Weasley, please," Harry begged. "She's having a hard enough time as it is. Don't make it worse for her."

"It's okay, Harry," she said, looking up at last, smiling at him. "It's only because Dad cares, and he's worried."

_But you wouldn't understand __**that**__, would you?_ Harry couldn't bear to look at her. What if he'd figured things out back that night, when Hermione had been petrified?

Ron's hand was still on his shoulder, grounding him, keeping his mind from wandering too far down dangerous roads.

"As a matter of fact, Headmaster, I think she ought to go to the Hospital Wing…Riddle did quite a bit of damage, not all of it visible."

Ginny glared over in his direction, and then gave a tight, pained smile. He thought he understood, but that realisation just made him angrier. "Headmaster, I think—"

His thoughts were permanently derailed when the door was flung open with great force, and a familiar man with long blond hair entered. Attempting to black his boots as he walked was a familiar house-elf. Harry's eyes widened at the sight.

"Dumbledore! What are you doing back here? I believe that you had an order from the Board of Governors to leave this school. That did not mean for a few months only."

"Ah," said Dumbledore, and Harry was glad to be once more out of the spotlight, the silent observer watching events unfold. He did not begrudge Dumbledore his twinkling eyes.

"Well, it is a curious thing, Mr. Malfoy. I'm afraid that after word got out that Ms. Weasley here had been taken into the Chamber, I was simply _swamped_ by a sudden storm of owls from those governors, begging me to return. It was odd, though…some of them seemed to think you had threatened them into voting to send me off. All a misunderstanding, I'm sure, but as they've changed their minds, I'm not going against their decree by remaining here, now am I?"

Malfoy had to concede that fact, but he was a sore loser. He kicked out at Dobby, who was flung by his actions into the desk. Ron let go of Harry's shoulder, and was doubtless on the verge of picking a fight with Malfoy Senior, when Harry grabbed onto his forearm as tight as he could, yanking him back.

"Don't, Ron," he said. "Let _me_ handle this." With his grip on Ron still unyielding, he strode over to Mr. Malfoy, wishing he didn't have to look up to look the man in the eyes. He hated being so short. "Do you want to know how Ginny got hold of this diary that was the true source of all the problems of this year?" he asked Malfoy, voice deceptively calm.

Malfoy's gaze flickered to the diary. He scoffed, and tried to pretend that he'd never seen it before. He was not that great a liar. "How should I know where the little girl stumbled upon that book?" he sneered. "I have no great interest in their business."

"Ah, but you do," Harry said, leaning towards him. "Don't think anyone in Flourish and Blotts has forgotten the scene you made in the centre of their store, when you pulled out Ginny's Transfiguration book, and shoved this diary into it."

That was how the available facts added up, at least. That that was when Malfoy had given Ginny the diary.

Harry, gaze fixed upon Malfoy, barely noticed the Weasleys tense. Mr. Weasley looked as if he very much wanted a rematch, here and now, and Mrs. Weasley didn't seem much inclined to stop him.

"Prove it," Malfoy hissed, glaring down at Harry. Harry smiled, a smile devoid of warmth.

"Oh, I don't have to. The store was packed that day. There are more witnesses to your actions than you could hope to silence."

Ron went completely still, as still as a statue. Harry could feel how motionless Ron was, as if petrified, and turned to glance back at him.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, what do you suppose the punishment would be for petrifying three students, and traumatising a twelve-year-old girl? I suppose you'll never see that much-deserved punishment, will you? But no one in this room will forget what you have done. And I swear to you that I will ensure, one way or another, that you never have the chance to do anything like this ever again."

Ron seemed to relax, behind him. Harry leant on the deadly weapon in his right hand, stance casual, awaiting Malfoy's response.

"Is that a _threat_, Potter?" he asked, at last.

"Only if you intend to harm more children," Harry said, still with that cold smile.

Malfoy swept from the room with a dramatic flair. The room seemed to relax.

"Say, Headmaster Dumbledore…I don't suppose I could give the diary _back_ to Mr. Malfoy, could I?" he asked, with a smaller, much more sincere smile. The Weasleys turned to stare at him. He shrugged, and then paused.

He had a few minutes until Malfoy could reach the edge of Hogwarts grounds, and he couldn't disapparate sooner than that, although Harry didn't know that. He didn't even know about apparation, yet. He just knew that Malfoy would have to leave as he arrived, and assumed that he had some time, at least.

"Mr. Potter, may I suggest that you leave that sword here, where we can see it. Although I trust you not to misuse it, the other students might be alarmed," McGonagall interjected, seeming to have found her voice once more.

"But I really wanted to keep it…" Harry wheedled. He turned to Ron. "Hold this, and be very careful with it. It's sharp."

"I am aware that swords are sharp, Harry," Ron said. Harry blinked. That almost sounded like sarcasm. But that couldn't be; everyone knew that Ron had no sense of humour. Or sarcasm.

But he could think about the improbability of _that_, later. He left the room, pausing on the stairs to pull off his sneaker, and then pull off a sock. These were muggle hand-me-downs anyway, and had never really fit. Now, they were further half-covered in slime and muck and blood (whose blood he wasn't sure, as there were three or four candidates). Huh. This last hour had been kind of weird, hadn't it?

He shrugged, stretching the sock over the diary as a sort of sheath, and then slipped the sneakers back on again. They were far too big, and would chafe his feet something awful, but it would be worth it. He hoped.

He strode down the stairs as if it didn't matter, running down the path Malfoy must have taken, until he caught up to Malfoy and Dobby.

"Mr. Malfoy! You forgot something," he said, voice full of fake cheer.

Harry thrust the diary into his hands. Malfoy's expression upon touching the filthy sock was priceless. Almost as priceless as his expression after he ripped the sock off, tossing it carelessly to the side, and Dobby caught it, and he heard Dobby's exultations about his newfound liberty.

Harry smiled. Oh, this was only the _beginning_ of his revenge. He'd spend some time in the library researching how to go about removing Malfoy from the Board of Governors—and maybe get him put on trial, at the very least. There was a wizarding newspaper…perhaps if he could spread the news fast enough, and far enough, people would be clamouring for his resignation.

For now, he contented himself with the sudden heat of Malfoy's glare as he realised just what had happened.

"You've cost me my servant, boy!" he cried, and made to hit Harry, but in that split second, Dobby was between them. A wave of energy expanded around the two of them—a concave barrier, almost visible to the naked eye, which flung Malfoy back several feet…and down a flight of stairs.

"You shall not touch Harry Potter. You will leave here, now!"

Harry felt much more highly of Dobby after that. "…Thank you, Dobby."

"Dobby needs no thanking, sir. Harry Potter has given Dobby the greatest gift he can imagine. Dobby is free! Dobby is a free elf!"

Malfoy slunk away, continuing down the halls. They watched him disappear out of sight, before Harry continued.

"Thank you for trying to warn me about…about everything. Dumbledore made me see that you meant well. But…I just want you to promise me one thing, alright?"

"Anything! Whatever Master Harry Potter asks, sir!" said Dobby, with cheerful enthusiasm. Harry winced. He wasn't sure he was trustworthy enough for _that_ sort of response. He shook his head.

"Never try to save my life again, okay?"

Dobby nodded, and disappeared.

Harry shook his head. Time to return to try to speak with Dumbledore and McGonagall. Ron had _better not_ have handed over the "sword".


	50. Paradigmatic

**Chapter Fifty: Paradigmatic**

Ron hadn't handed the "sword" over. He was still gripping the fake-hilt tight when Harry returned. He handed it back over as Harry had, "hilt" first. There was a moment's disorientation for Harry, who had seen how Ron had held the blade—posture just perfect, as if he'd held a sword before. He hadn't noticed it when he'd gone to follow Mr. Malfoy, but….

It was just a coincidence, he told himself, and took the fang back from Ron.

"The Sorting Hat entrusted the sword to me," he said. "It told me that giving me it was a marker of its trust."

McGonagall's nostrils flared. "Be that as it may, Mr. Potter—" she began. He frowned, turning his attention to Dumbledore, sitting behind his desk with his hands clasped.

"I think you will find that the Sword of Gryffindor is safe in my care," he said, with a benevolent smile. Harry nearly spat out his lemon drop.

"'_Sword of Gryffindor_'?" he repeated. He'd heard of the artefact before, but there had never been any pictures, of course. Even in the Hogwarts library, there were no such records old enough that detailed its appearance predating its disappearance. There had been a few haphazard guesses as to how it might have looked before, which Harry gave little heed, knowing that in these later volumes, such depictions were mostly speculation. None of the authors or illustrators had seen the sword first-hand. Then, how did Dumbledore recognise it?

"How do you know—?" he began, effectively sidetracked, momentarily.

Dumbledore gave him a serene smile. "The ruby there, on the pommel, is one indication. But also, the headmaster of Hogwarts is privy to information not to be found in the main section of the library. There are other indications."

Ah, yes. If he'd truly been curious, he ought to have snuck into the Restricted Section. Duly noted. Apparently, some contemporary sketch or painting of the sword at least still existed, somewhere. He was almost inclined to sulk at this revelation, but he returned his mind to the topic at hand, instead.

"But, Professor…. I mean…this sword, I worked very hard to get it, and—"

"I believe your fellow students would feel safer if we limited you to a single weapon, Mr. Potter," McGonagall interjected.

Did his reputation precede him? What did she think he was going to use it for? Maddening though Malfoy was, he wasn't about to impale the jerk.

He sighed. "But—but if I needed to, if circumstances called for it, I could use it then, right? And—and no one is going to try to touch it or use it, right? The Hat made it quite clear—"

"Rest assured, Mr. Potter, I think I can confirm that no one will touch the sword in your absence."

Harry sighed again, glancing down at the intricate detail of the sword at his side. He _did_ want to keep it. He wanted to examine it some more, for one thing, and he felt better knowing that no one else had touched it. But he'd known all along that it would come to this. He paused.

"Does it have a sheath, or something? I don't want anyone to cut themselves—"

With a flick of his wand, a makeshift sheath of brown leather appeared on the table. Harry blinked, and then reached for it, slamming it to cover the exposed… weapon. Then, slowly, he handed them both over, with the greatest reluctance. Ron's hand landed on his shoulder, again.

They all seemed to relax with the thing safely in Dumbledore's possession. There was a palpable decrease in the room's tension. He might have bristled at the lack of trust they displayed, but it was clear that Ron, at least, trusted him enough not to be wary of him. And Ginny. Just the adults seemed to think he'd go around slashing it through paintings and decapitating first years.

"And now, if I might speak to you in private, Harry, I think we might leave the Weasleys to…adjust."

Ron's grip tightened on his shoulder. "If you wish for me to stay—" he began, but Harry turned back to him, and gave him a feeble smile that was his attempt at being bright and cheery. Oh, well.

"I'll be fine, Ron," he said. Ron continued to hesitate, watching his parents stand and make for the door, instead.

McGonagall left first, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, still smothering Ginny.

Only then did Ron's hand leave his shoulder, only then did he follow his parents and sister, and still he turned back at the threshold, as if to confirm once again that, yes, Harry was alive, and yes, he didn't need any help to face Dumbledore alone.

And then, there was stillness. Silence. Fawkes approached the front of his cage, but neither Dumbledore nor Harry moved for the moment. Harry found it easier to approach the cage, instead. He spoke to Dumbledore without turning to face him, as if speaking to Fawkes.

"Thank you for sending Guy to help me. If you hadn't…if he hadn't brought the Sorting Hat, I know I wouldn't have survived."

"I didn't send him," said Dumbledore, tone considering. "He must have come on his own. I must thank you, Harry. You must have shown me true loyalty down in that Chamber. Nothing else could have called Fawkes to you."

True loyalty. "Then, is that why you didn't seem to…_resent_ my lashing out at you?"

Dumbledore sighed. A glance in his direction revealed that his gaze was troubled, his eyes dark. "No, Harry. I'm afraid I deserve a bit of reproach, now and then, but, as a famed wizard renowned for his intellect, fewer people than I would like dare to reprimand me, and to remind me of my own shortcomings. We are, each of us, only human, and many people forget that I, too, have my faults." At the phrase "only human", Harry bit his lip to keep from saying…something. _What_, he wasn't sure. But Dumbledore continued, seemingly none the wiser.

"You were right. As was your friend Ron. If I had known, I would have told you of the name, _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. I should have done that this year, but instead I kept my silence. I should have realised that you would again be drawn into events…that Riddle would seek you out. Here is the proof I always sought for, but did not wish to find. Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort. I taught him myself, many years ago. He was one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts has ever seen…."

Harry glanced at Dumbledore in time to catch the brief, wistful look. "I wonder, sometimes, whether I could have stopped his rise…but that is a thought for another time. You have met Tom Riddle. And I'm sure he was most interested in you…."

"I might have had more forewarning, had my scar hurt at all. But it didn't even twinge. Didn't you say last year that you thought it hurt when he was nearby, or feeling particularly strong emotion?" He remembered that, now. It hadn't hurt in the Chamber of Secrets, although, by Dumbledore's reasoning, it should have. Whether or not it should have when he was stuck viewing Tom Riddle's memory was up for debate. That needed less explanation.

"Is that right?" asked Dumbledore. "I wonder why that could be. Perhaps Riddle was not yet so evil as to cause you pain, or to be injured by the protection of your Mother's love. That is mere speculation. But it seems that as he grew older, his evil likewise grew. I do not have all the answers, Harry, understand. This is only my best guess."

Harry nodded. It seemed to follow reason. He relaxed a bit, perhaps reassured that Dumbledore wasn't just hiding things from him. But that left returning to Dumbledore's original question (and how did he know? Was it only because he knew Tom Riddle?).

Harry remembered Riddle's musings with a jolt like an electric shock (and he should know about those). "He…down there in the Chamber…." It was not often that he had to struggle to form words. This was one of those times. He was exhausted in many ways less superficial than strenuous exercise. He felt the weariness down to his soul.

Dumbledore waited for him, an odd look in his eyes. Not pity, not remorse, but perhaps a tinge of regret, of sorrow.

"He said…he said he thought we were very similar. Both orphans, both intelligent, with good marks and all, both parselmouths…but…he was wrong…wasn't he? He's a psychopath; he killed my Mum and Dad! But…deep down…am I any better? Am I a monster, Professor?"

Dumbledore sighed. "The very fact that you are troubled enough to ask that question is evidence against it. Yes, you can speak parseltongue, a prized gift that Slytherin favoured in his own students, as he was a parselmouth himself. But I suspect that that ability stems from certain…characteristics passed on to you by Lord Voldemort when he attempted to kill you when you were a baby. I fear that, that night, he put a bit of his soul in you, not something he meant to do, I believe—"

Harry gasped, as he was doubtless meant to. "'Some of himself'?" he repeated. He thought again of the Sorting Hat's warning: _You may have sensed it, Your Grace: a corner of your mind is not your own. Tread with caution around it…_. Had _that_ been what the Sorting Hat had meant?

But no, it had been speaking of _Thanos_ just before. Then, was Voldemort a secondary corruption of his mind? Or was that taint located elsewhere, and the Hat had never sensed it? Did Mother know? His thoughts began to head along their own track, and he spoke with less care in his words: "Then…then I _do_ belong in slytherin…if he's partly who I am—"

"I would not go that far," Dumbledore said, voice almost stern. No, _bracing_. "You sell yourself short. His soul might have had an influence on you, but it is hardly a marker of who you are. The Sorting Hat chose you for gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."

Harry bowed his head, letting his bangs cast his eyes in shadow, hiding the scar Lily Evans hated to see. "The Sorting Hat thought that slytherin would lead me down the wrong road," he said. As he was seeking for Dumbledore's honest opinion, there was no sense in lying. "I think it wanted to put me in slytherin…but I didn't want to go there…I didn't want to be the monster, the bad guy, the villain. But you want what you don't have—"

"But that makes you _very_ different from Riddle," said Dumbledore, firmly. "It is our _choices_ that make us who we are, far more than our abilities. And yes, you happen to have a few traits that Slytherin himself prized, but then, so did your father…indeed, he was far more rebellious and a troublemaker than you have been.

"You are more often maligned than malevolent, as I have noticed. If you wish to be a better person—to be the sort of person who fits the paradigm of Gryffindor House—why, that is _exactly_ the sort of person that Gryffindor most valued in _his_ house. Slytherin is the house of ambition, true, but Gryffindor is the house of those who seek to become better than they are—not financially, or physically, but to straighten out their priorities and purge their souls of regrets. Those who wished to be the hero, who sought for fame and glory, or even 'mere' redemption, were Gryffindor's most treasured students, more than those already possessed of great courage and fame. You may think that Mr. Weasley is a true gryffindor, but you are, in your own way, the truest example. That is why the Sorting Hat entrusted the Sword of Gryffindor to _you_. Only a _true_ gryffindor could pull that sword from the Hat."

Harry looked down, looking for a gap in Dumbledore's argument. The only one he could find were the events he was still half-denying to himself. He didn't want those to be true….

Regardless, Mother had already reassured him about that. But to hear that someone outside his family and inner circle agreed….

Slowly, he turned to look at Dumbledore. "I killed Lockhart, though. And Quirrell."

Dumbledore sighed. He glanced down at his desk, and Harry flinched, thinking he'd gone too far this time, that he was going to be sent away, arrested, expelled, stripped of magic….

"Why?" asked Dumbledore instead.

"Well—" Harry blinked, unsure of what to say. He found himself defensive, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "Quirrell—he was working with Voldemort! If I hadn't, he might have used the Stone to resurrect him—"

"And Lockhart?" asked Dumbledore. Harry looked down.

"I don't know," he said. "He'd been making my life miserable all year, and then…and then he threatened to obliviate Ron and me, when we were the only ones who knew about the basilisk, and I was the only one who could open the Chamber of Secrets. When he tried to wipe our minds the second time, I just…I just _snapped_."

He looked up, to meet Dumbledore's gaze. Then he looked down, fists clenched. He lowered his fists to his side (_show no weakness_) and awaited the verdict. Surely, _now_ Dumbledore would call him a monster, and cast him out.

Instead, Dumbledore sighed, again. "We all do things we regret, in the heat of the moment. If I were there, I could reassure you better about the morality of your choices, but… I know you, Harry, and I trust your judgement. Killing has never been your first choice, in other matters. And had you not acted, do you believe that Ginny would be alive now?"

No. He didn't.

"Life if full of difficult choices, and sometimes there is no good one. It seems as if you chose the kinder path first, and resorted to violence only when that failed. I think that you are not to blame, Harry. I know you made a very difficult choice, and have too often had the weight of the world thrust onto your shoulders, one way or another. This time next year, remind me, and I will tell you the truth about the reason your parents died. For now, you look dead on your feet. I think you've kept Madam Pomfrey waiting long enough. But Harry…" he trailed off abruptly as Harry, recognising a dismissal when he heard one, was almost to the door. "Feel free to come back to speak to me at any time."

The offer reminded him of that which he had made to Ginny. And he could sense that Dumbledore was just as sincere. His throat tightened (how did he deserve this?) but he looked back to Dumbledore, and nodded.

Unlike Dumbledore, it was just a gesture. He didn't mean it.

* * *

It was the end of term, and final exams had been canceled for those who had been petrified, which was just as well; Hermione was still fervently going over her notes anyway when the next year course schedules came around. They could choose a number of new classes to take from third year through fifth, when, at the end of the year, they would take their O.W.L.s, and choose a specialty. Harry pored over the new course descriptions with Hermione and Ron.

Hermione badgered all the upperclassmen she could find about which courses she should take, and then defeated the purpose of such by signing up for all of them, anyway. Ron was more judicious, conferring with Harry about the merits of this and that.

Harry knew he had no need of Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy, the magic of numbers, sounded a bit too statistical for his tastes. Care of Magical Creatures would be much like hanging out with Hagrid, but he would still learn a lot of interesting things in a brand-new field of magic. He frowned. A maximum of three courses (he wondered how they'd choose for Hermione). Muggle Studies was redundant, raised by the Dursleys as he was, although Ron should take that class, pureblood as he was (Ron waved him off when he said this, claiming that he knew "enough").

Divination, though…. Between dreams of what seemed to be the future, and an innate curiosity about the whims of fate, added onto the almost-forgotten-until-then mystery of Ragnarök, and how it was that human mythologists had known so damn much about the Norse Gods…he knew that Divination was a requirement. Divination, Care of Magical Creatures…what else?

Not Ancient Runes. Not Muggle Studies. He looked over the list again. Well…_maybe_ Arithmancy, unless it were some sort of numerological nonsense.

Ron would not share his reasons for choosing Divination, same as Harry was, which was an unusual display of secrecy on his part, but he was willing to share his reasons for picking Care of Magical Creatures. For one thing, he was curious about what Charlie had seen in dragons. But then, there was the very good point that Hagrid was liable to rope them into any further projects of his, which Harry had to concede. Especially now that he'd been cleared of all charges against him, and was free to use magic. Hogwarts was going to be a rather interesting place, next year.

And of course, then there was just plain old interest, same as Harry. That they were almost certain to have less homework in that class was a factor Ron admitted with cheerful goodwill. Ron was taking the minimum of courses (two).

Harry wished that they could swap out these classes for pointless classes he was already taking: i.e., Potions and Astronomy. But, you couldn't have everything.

In the end, he settled for just Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, same as Ron. With luck, Hermione would be in those two classes, as well. Perhaps they chose classes for you in part based on what social circles you ran in. Hey! It was a possibility!

Once final exams were taken (despite the lack of Defence Professor), and their bags were packed, it wasn't long before they were headed back to their homes. Or, in Harry's case, Number Four, Privet Drive. Ron had already taken him aside to thrust a new container of rings at Harry. It felt rather similar to last year, only this time, he hadn't spent forever in the Hospital Wing. Also, they hadn't had a complete quidditch cup. And the House Cup had been canceled as well (owing to "a lack of opportunity on the part of houses to properly compete"). At least it wasn't as biased as last year.

Malfoy was even more insufferable after his father was kicked off the Board of Governors. Harry hadn't even had to do anything, but he'd roped Hermione into studying Wizarding Law almost as soon as she'd been released from the Hospital Wing.

On May Thirty-First, he'd asked his mother for help with learning how to heal, and she, shaking her head still (she'd just heard what had happened, the whole story, complete with filling in the missing puzzle pieces), had agreed. It was clear that she approved, which was perhaps the best part of the deal. That night was mostly spent with her laying down foundational rules, because that was how she taught. He didn't mind, too much. He didn't expect to get into too much trouble over the next month, although…with the Dursleys, you never knew.

And Ginny had occasionally paused just to say hello to him, and then dash away again. He had no idea what to think about that.

But now, the year was over, and he had to go back to his relatives. (He was unsurprised to find that they'd fixed the barrier wall in his absence—or perhaps Dobby had.) Here was hoping that next year was _much_ less eventful.

{end _Psychopaths and Liars_}


	51. Several Beginnings

**author's note:** Here it is: the book you've all been waiting for!  
...Okay, the book _I've_ been waiting for. But if you're still with me, perhaps we're on similar enough wavelengths for you to appreciate this one, as I do.  
Book three of HP has always been my favourite, and the only one I like on its own merit. Plus, I owe it something of a debt of gratitude: in the years leading up to reading that book, I was _terrified_ of Grims and suchlike. It helped me to deal with that. I owe it, for that.  
Accordingly, I've put a lot more effort into this particular book of this story than I have the others. As a transitional point, it needs particular attention, as you know. And because I respect _Prisoner of Azkaban_, this book pretends to follow it with fidelity...before merrily going off on its own. Sure, it comes back to canon in the end, but you know that, just as with _Prisoner of Azkaban_, after this book, the story won't be the same again.  
(Or, at least, all that's the goal.)

**update: **Who hasn't been looking forward to Sirius's appearance? He's the last of our main characters to show. (Man, I was chipper when I wrote the previous note...what, two months ago?)  
Oh, and, remember in the beginning, when I said that this was a fix-fic? Well, time to start fixing things!  
Guess I'll keep the Tuesday-Friday model, for now.

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-One: Several Beginnings**

After swearing that he wouldn't send letters, or any matter of "correspondence", to anyone, the Dursleys decided that it was permissible for Hedwig, at least, to have the liberty of flying about outdoors whenever she wished. They resented the "racket" she made, and her smell. Otherwise, they would have kept her locked up, no matter how she suffer. Harry was relieved that he at least no longer had to fear that she would starve to death.

Just he. That was, after all, still their preferred punishment.

He'd expected for a great fuss to be made about how he'd suddenly vanished the year before, but apparently Mrs. Weasley had sent them a letter explaining "in case they worried". They had destroyed the envelope and letter both, fearing that they might be tainted with icky magicness. He wondered if the letter had crushed any dreams they might have had of him being abducted and murdered. He didn't ask, deciding that he was probably better off not knowing for sure.

With Hedwig free to come and go as she pleased, Harry was much less tense. He performed his usual duties without complaint, thinking to himself that it was hardly as bad, slaving out here, as being shunned by half the school, or tortured.

He sent off the rings whenever Errol came around, and considered himself bound by the promise he made not to send Hedwig to tell the Weasleys that there was no need to exhaust Errol thus. Hedwig was a free bird, after all.

And then, two weeks before his thirteenth birthday, he awoke from a sound slumber to the sound of something hitting his window. There were no tree branches close enough to disturb it—and as their sole gardener, he would know. It might have been a bird. It might have been a Death Eater. He sat straight up, and looked at the window, sighing in relief as the automatic wariness left him.

It was neither bird nor Death Eater. It was Ron, hanging from the window again. That couldn't be good for you. He thought of those metal beams that muggles used for chin-ups, wondering how long the average person could extend himself thus. Of course, Ron was far from average, but….

Shaking his head clear of absurd speculation, he slid open the window, and cocked his head.

"_Ron_? What are you doing here? Did Errol fail to return with the latest ring? Because I'm fine—as fine as I ever am at the Dursleys, anyway. They're allowing me to eat things; that's a definite improvement over last summer. Oh, and Hedwig is allowed to fly around outside, as long as I don't use her for correspondence; you can stop sending Errol."

Ron stared at him. "…Indeed," he began. He looked around the room. "May I come in?"

Harry stood aside, in lieu of a reply, thinking back to Ron's last visit to Number Four, at about the same time last year. He'd needed rescuing _then_, but…well, Ron seemed unsurprised by his explanation… why was he here, now?

Ron climbed in, with silent caution, and peered around the room, as he had the year before. There was little observable difference. Harry had prised up a loose floorboard under his bed, wherein he kept those few things that would fit that he wanted the Dursleys to remain ignorant of. The list was small, thus far, as they were already aware of all of his school supplies. It was serving more as a failsafe than anything else. Although he _had_ picked the lock of his bedroom, and then the cupboard, during the first week of break, and smuggled out some schoolbooks before locking them both again. He was busy working on his essays by flashlight (or, more often, that purer white light that he still practiced making, lest he fall behind in his practice of the _other_ magic; he still needed to build his reserves…).

"They are kinder to you than last year?" Ron asked, as if he now felt the need to stall.

"I have yet to sufficiently anger them to merit punishment. For now, all is well," Harry said, tilting his head back to look at the boring ceiling. "Or, rather, they don't know that I learnt how to pick locks from Fred and George, and brought some of my textbooks up to work on homework. But as they allow Hedwig to fly free, now…well, I've done my best to fit their idea of 'well-behaved'."

He glanced down at the floor, but Ron would never guess which floorboard it was; it was one among many, and under his bed. He couldn't see it from here.

"You are well?" Ron asked in confirmation, and Harry huffed. Mother hen.

"Perfectly. May I ask _why_ you are so fixated on that?"

Ron looked down and away. "…I bring…_news_. You will not have heard, as no wizarding communication is permitted. You are…unaware…. Every year, the Ministry holds a five hundred galleon draw. One employee a year earns this bonus money, and this year, it was Dad. The _Daily Prophet_ always has a small piece announcing the winner…but you do not receive _The Daily Prophet_…."

He looked up, and over at Harry. "What I mean to say, Harry, is that Mum and Dad have decided to spend the money on, among other things, a small stay with my older brother, Bill, in Egypt. Hermione has already written to inform me that she wishes that she could go to Egypt…something about adding the information to her History of Magic essay—but I wished to ensure that you would be well for the remainder of the summer. Had I the choice, I would remain—"

Harry shook his head, beaming. "Oh, that's _wonderful_ news, Ron! Don't worry about _me_. I'm sure I can stay out of trouble for another month and a half—particularly if Dumbledore has made some sort of arrangement. And if not, I'll run away before I can become trapped, as I was last summer. Although, I don't think the Dursleys will try that again…no one ever explained what became of those bars on my window, after all…. Have fun in Egypt, and be sure to tell Hermione and me all about it!"

Hedwig hooted, possibly in agreement, from her open cage door. Ron glanced at her, and then away. He seemed…somewhat ashamed.

"Really, Ron, I'll be fine! Are you going to get a new wand? Because while that old one had its uses, I'm glad you saw sense and decided to use Malfoy's for the final exams, but it would be even better if you got your own—"

"We will return to Britain…two weeks before the start of term. Dad intends to stay in Diagon Alley. If need be, we will come find you at that time. Be careful, Harry."

"When am I ever _not_ careful?" Harry asked, spreading his hands wide, still grinning.

"…You have died _twice_ in the past two years, Harry," Ron just _had_ to remind him. Harry frowned, and folded his arms.

"Extenuating circumstances," he said, waving his right hand in dismissal. "But as there are no basilisks or Dark Lords allowed on Privet Drive—and I _have_ asked the local snakes to keep a lookout—I think I'm fine. Just forget about having to worry about me for a while, okay? And thank you for coming to tell me. I appreciate it."

He bowed his head, looking down at the floor again. "All the same…it is best not to tempt Fate. The Dursleys are fairly heavy sleepers, but…well, I waited until they were out of the _house_ before picking the lock on the cupboard door. You should not push things by staying here much longer. It is good to see you, however. Don't think I don't appreciate the visit, or anything. And thank you for the rescue last year. But…if you've said your piece—hang on, did you use the Knight Bus, again?"

His eyes narrowed. Ron gave a strained half-smile, and Harry, cocking his head, nodded, reaching under his bed to pull up the loose floorboard, shoving a handful of coins into Ron's hands. When Ron opened his mouth to protest, Harry cut him off.

"Don't. I mean it. You came here to visit _me_, and, as I said last year, that constitutes doing me a favour, for which I have every right to compensate you. And no, I don't care about the five hundred galleon draw that means that you can, temporarily, afford the visit."

"Friendship and family are not _possessions_, to be bartered or sold—"

Harry rolled his eyes. Sometimes, with Ron, you just had to. "I never said they were. Just take the money, Ron, and get out of here. Perhaps I'm paying you to leave."

He wanted to take the words back even as he spoke them. He swallowed, looking down, and the familiar thought of _why did I have to say that?_ fluttered across his mind.

But Ron seemed to understand. He walked over to Harry, crushed him in a hug, and then, before Harry could think of pushing him away, returned to the window.

"Well…I shall see you again in a month, then," he said, and Harry, still looking down, nodded. "Be careful, little brother," Ron said, and Harry's gaze lifted again, as if against his will. Fred and George had started the use of the term, and said it often, but Ron rarely did. It almost made it seem more sincere, as if it meant more to Ron than it did to Fred and George. But that was ridiculous.

Harry raised a hand to wave a half-hearted goodbye.

* * *

His birthday, he was beginning to think, was inevitably a call for disaster. Even before the sun rose, he had to ponder how he was going to get Uncle Vernon to sign his permission form for Hogsmeade. He was sure that there were spells to detect forgery, and it wasn't worth using the other magic—suppose that was just accidental magic? Then, they'd be suspicious.

Hagrid had, for whatever reason, ignored his polite requests for no mail, to send him a violent book which he'd promptly frozen solid and bound with old shoelaces _and_ tape. He was nevertheless a bit leery of it straining against its bindings under the floorboard under his bed.

He had come down to cook breakfast and begin his chores for the day, and was still thinking fervently about any plan to persuade Uncle Vernon to commit an act of _kindness_ concerning _him_, when he overheard the news.

Aunt Marge. Arriving in less than an hour. He would have to clean the entire house, doubtless, to prepare for her arrival, despite there not being a spec of dust left in it.

And Aunt Marge…she was a nasty piece of work. He was surprised he hadn't developed cynophobia after all his encounters with her favourite old bulldog, Ripper. But she didn't even genuinely _love_ her dogs—just Ripper, perhaps. She was one of those people for whom animals were just possessions—not an investment of love and companionship. Ripper was the only exception to the rule, seemingly, for she clearly favoured him. But on the whole, he _pitied_ any dog given or born into the care of Marjorie Dursley.

This did not mean that he liked Aunt Marge's dogs, however. Pity them he might, but they were merciless and cruel as they'd been bred and raised to be. He was not sure he trusted himself not to magic his way out of the inevitable calamity that Marge would make of her stay. He didn't need to have taken a single class of Divination to foresee great suffering in his immediate future.

Then, he sensed an opportunity, which extricated his mind from foreboding thoughts of how he might react to Marge now he had two years of Hogwarts and knowledge of an entire branch of magic to fall back on. Would he do something he would later regret? But….

"I'm not taking you," said Uncle Vernon, his animosity towards Harry nothing diminished by Harry's "best behaviour".

"Did I ask to come?" asked Harry, a slight bite to his voice. He closed his eyes, counting down from ten. "I wished to ask a favour from you, before you left."

"Well? Out with it, then," Uncle Vernon snapped, fiddling with his car keys. Red flooded his face, as it generally did when Harry initiated any manner of conversation. Harry sighed, looking down.

"Third years at—at my school are allowed to leave grounds to visit the nearby town. But we need to have permission slips signed by our guardians. It would only take a moment of your time, and, while I know you don't like to do anything for me—"

He might have lied about some of the details if the information weren't written on the permission form itself, and he hadn't further known that, much as Vernon disapproved of "boring" activities such as reading, he would read the slip to ensure that…what, he wasn't signing away his soul? Who knew, with the likes of the Dursleys.

Vernon, far from being shamed by this observation, interrupted, "Damn right I don't. You live here, in this house, wearing clothes we put on your ungrateful back, and dare to ask—"

"Some people might say that I have more than paid for my room and board by virtue of the work you have set me to—my chores, I mean. Cooking, cleaning, gardening—"

"Only in the summer—" Uncle Vernon grunted. Harry was pleased with himself for not pointing out that he could hardly be expected to pay room and board when he was living elsewhere.

Instead, he gave a tight smile, and said, "There are no expenses associated with these excursions. And I would not be kicked out of school or otherwise any worse off for not going. However, if I were one of the few to stay behind, my fellow classmates might think…incorrect, and rather unkind things about you."

"Is that a threat, boy?" asked Uncle Vernon, his face approaching magenta, now, eyes narrowed so much that he seemed to be squinting.

Harry waved his arms in surrender—or as if fending off a blow. He half-expected that the conversation was tending in that direction. "Oh, no sir! I just meant to say that the élites and well-to-do of my society might think that I was raised by…people of less discrimination and refinement, if they saw that I could not even keep up in such a small matter."

Uncle Vernon frowned, considering the matter further. He didn't want anyone—even wizards—to think that he was low-class. At the same time, signing the permission form might make Harry _happy_, something he'd done his best to avoid the past twelve years.

"I have told Marge that you attend St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys," he began, and Harry's eyes narrowed. That was the sort of name you gave to reform schools and schools for troubled teens. He didn't like the thought of his appearing to be a delinquent, _or_ a criminal—it brought to mind painful maybe-memories of a certain prince being arrested and dragged back home in metaphorical chains. He would have no reputation at all, at this point, in the neighbourhood—not if Vernon had been spreading those lies about him around prior to this hour, and by the casual way he said the name, he'd spoken it often. Harry frowned, looking down.

"Well, that is a very long and complicated name," he said, in his mildest voice. "Quite difficult to remember, too, and you have given me no time in which to acclimate, or to rehearse. This could be tricky—"

Now Vernon had gone purple. "Well, you'd best remember it, boy!"

"But it will be hard work, pretending I go to this…St. Whatsits—"

"St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys!" Uncle Vernon shouted, and, in the back of his mind, Harry wondered what any eavesdropping neighbours—and there were always at least one or two, in _this_ neighbourhood—thought about that sudden outburst.

But outwardly, he just raised an eyebrow, and folded his arms. "Exactly," he said. "Very long, very complicated, and if I've been going there for two years, supposedly…I should be more familiar with it. Suppose I mess up?"

"Then you'll have the stuffing beat out of you, won't you?" Uncle Vernon hissed, leaning forwards so that spittle flying from his mouth hit Harry's face. He grimaced, but stood his ground. The things he put up with!

"That won't make Aunt Marge forget what I might say," he said, shaking his head in feigned sorrow and regret. Mocking sorrow and regret. "But…if you sign my permission form, I think my mind will be clear enough that I can remember the name and feed her whatever information you wish of me."

Uncle Vernon glanced down at his watch. Harry had no compunction about making Uncle Vernon run late. Every minute he stalled Uncle Vernon was another minute added to his freedom from Aunt Marge. But Uncle Vernon was actually fond of his sister, and looking forward to her visit, despite his and Aunt Petunia's mutual hatred of all animals, including dogs.

"Fine," he said, eyes still narrowed into slits. "If you toe the line, at the end of her stay, I'll sign your ruddy form."

And he ripped the piece of paper out of Harry's hands so that Harry was surprised to only have _one_ papercut. Uncle Vernon opened the door of the car, and slammed it with such violence that Harry thought the glass ought to have broken.

He waved to Uncle Vernon, and then turned on his heel to run back upstairs and send Hedwig off. The empty cage could remain—if Aunt Marge peeked into his room, there was little suspicious about having a pet bird, as long as she didn't know it was an owl—but Hedwig herself had to go.

"Perhaps you might find the Weasleys out in Egypt, but I think Hermione might be a safer bet," he whispered to her. "Unfortunately, you must leave. It is the only shadow of a chance I have of having that permission slip signed. You're a smart, resourceful girl. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what to do."

He let her out the window, and sighed, glancing down. He hated the thought of being alone with the Dursleys, as he now was. He was always at his worst when he was all alone. He knew that. He just hoped that he could keep himself together long enough to outlast Aunt Marge. The only thing he had to look forward to was his mother's visit, tonight, and he was sure that most of that would be spent with her instruction. Although…she was always open to simply talking to him, too.

At least he'd be able to keep up his daily practice of the other magic—he did that at night, mostly, before he went to bed, and he doubted that Aunt Marge would check in on him, then. It was _some_ release of energy, at least.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Let's see how this went.


	52. Gods in Egypt

**author's note:** Yes, I just took a vaguely MCUish tack on Egyptian Mythology. The not-quite-rightness is mostly deliberate (you'll know what I mean, at the end).

* * *

**Chapter Fifty-Two: Gods in Egypt**

Perhaps it was the difference in climate—unfamiliar in a way he couldn't bring himself to appreciate, far too dry, with no clouds in sight—but his dream of the first night in Egypt, after Bill had shown them around his apartment, and everyone, struggling to stay awake, had retired for the night, was _odd_.

There was probably much that you could make of the psychology of the dream, if you were the sort who put stock in such things. All he knew was that it left him doubting the merits of his plan, yet again—the morality of it.

Apparently, the Mirror hadn't been bad enough. Because who was his family, now, and how would they react if he told them the truth?

And just what _was_ the truth, anyway? That question, once so simple, was growing ever more complex. He was not much given to deep thinking, but he could think and plan when he had to. Sometimes. But he could make little of his dreams. Were they byproducts of exhaustion and a strange culture? Were they expressions of his own inner turmoil, as he sought to stay true to every part of his identity? Or was there in truth something more to them?

It was probably a very bad thing whenever a god questioned his own identity. The sort of thing that shifted and disturbed the order of all deities in his pantheon, the birth or death of an era. But he was isolated from the rest. There were probably no world-shattering differences to be found in the universe owing to his disturbance.

He would learn only later that it rained that night—a strange experience in the barren desert. That was yet another symptom, another variable, and he'd never done well with those. He had always been very direct.

Then, why was he good at chess? Was it an ability stolen from the _real_ Ron Weasley? Or was it something he'd always been able to do, but had never realised, because he'd never pursued the subject, had given it no thought?

In his dream, they at least _seemed_ to be two different people. Thor as himself stood in the empty Weasley household, in Ron's room (his room?), with the door closed, looking around the room, well aware of a certain distance between him, and the boy who had tacked up those posters, or collected—

There came a knock on the door. He thought it strange, knowing as he did that he was alone in the Weasley household. He was…apprehensive. Wary. But the knocking was insistent, and demanded to be answered.

"Come in," he said, remembering the manners Mrs. Weasley had instilled in him…somehow.

He was not expecting Ron Weasley to be the boy who entered. _Is this your bedroom?_ he might have asked. _Who are you? Are you an imposter?_

Those were all very good questions to ask. But he could sense that this was no imposter. Was he himself the imposter, then?

He hated all the introspective thoughts the Mirror had awoken within him, the ones he'd subconsciously had all along, but had lain undisturbed, latent, until that night.

He took a moment to study the externalised Ron Weasley, where he stood in the doorway, tall and skinny, wearing a homemade maroon sweater (a horrible colour for anyone with red hair), and blue jeans. He seemed quite young, but the exact age was difficult to pinpoint—there was a strange, ageless quality to his face, and his features seemed almost to change and warp. It was disconcerting.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the red-headed boy, although Thor should know, if anyone.

Silence.

"_What_ are you?" he tried. There were ruder thing he could have said, but he'd learnt at least _some_ notion of politeness, and what was and wasn't appropriate to say in human society, and he would use that.

Ron Weasley looked down at the frayed cuffs of his jeans, and then looked back up. He grinned, but it was not a childish, carefree grin. There was something heavy and world-weary about it, for just a second, and then it seemed as if Ron Weasley had somehow found a genuine source of amusement in this strange situation.

"Well, you keep asking questions you know the answer to. Why don't I turn that question around and ask: Who do you _think_ I am? What do you _believe_ I am? This is your mind, after all. Your dream."

Before then, he hadn't realised that he was dreaming. Thor frowned, because he very much was not the sort to be solving complex philosophical problems. It was even worse to be expected to when you were dreaming. Sleep was supposed to be a reprieve from deep thought and logic.

"Are you…me as I was before I remembered?" he tried. "Are you the boy I replaced, the Ron Weasley who would have been born had Father never sent me into the past? Are you just a part of my… (what was the term Hermione used?) subconscious? Identify yourself!"

When you were flustered and didn't know how to react, bluster was always a useful tool in your arsenal. If you were loud and intimidating enough, people were less likely to notice your weaknesses.

_Show no weakness._

"Sure. Probably," Ron said, giving the single most unsatisfactory answer possible to these questions. "I'm probably one of those. Or I could be you from the future, you know. But aren't all those questions unimportant? Tell me: which of those do _you_ think I am?"

He had the sense that the answer he gave to this question was very important, as if, to an extent, the answer he gave to that question dictated the answer to the question. There was a strange sort of distortion, and he realised it was rather as if Ron Weasley were only half-formed. Why couldn't anything be straightforward, the way everything once seemed?

"You must be the boy from whom I acquired the ability to play chess," Thor began, and Ron shrugged.

"Perhaps. If you say so. I was always a damn good chess player, I'll admit." Ron grinned. "Does it matter?"

"There must have been a different Ron Weasley, and a different Harry Potter, before I went back in time," Thor mused. "Are you that other Ron?"

Ron turned the question back on him. "Must there have been? Perhaps, devoid of hope, the Wizarding World collapsed in on itself, and that is why you have heard nothing of it in the future."

He began to realise that there were no concrete, absolute answers to be had in this conversation. He and The Hulk had something in common: they did best with straightforward situations, when they knew what to break, whom to _smash_. But, unlike The Hulk, Thor was capable of planning and thinking as well. He trusted the suspicion that Ron Weasley, here in the dream, was little more than what Thor projected onto him. Had he read Jung, he might have called Ron his shadow-self, but that term would not come up for years yet.

"Why are you here, Ronald Weasley?" he asked, leaning forwards to dangle his hands for a moment before burying his face in them. He should be ashamed of taking this boy's place. Unless this boy wouldn't have been, either, and all he'd done was to add another member to the Weasley household. Perhaps Ginny would have been born instead, and the Weasleys would have stopped with six children. There was no way of knowing.

"I came here to see what you plan to do," Ron said. "Harry is like a brother to me, too. But perhaps the Harry I speak of, and the Harry you love so much, are very different people. Perhaps the Harry I know was not as damaged by the Dursleys. Perhaps he had no connection to _Thanos_. Perhaps, for that, he was neither stronger nor weaker, or both at once. Or, perhaps, there never was such a Harry. What do you suppose?"

That sounded more than mere speculation. But if he said as much, he might make it true. A million possibilities, a million plans, a million moves. Perhaps he was not good at chess, after all.

"Do you wish you had told Harry who you were, already? Or do you still think you're somehow protecting him, keeping it to yourself? Your father may have told you you'd be all alone, here on _Midgard_, but that is already false. You have the choice to seek out allies, whom you could tell the truth of your circumstances. How could your father punish you for that, if he doesn't even know you're here? You play by the rules too much. Learn some flexibility."

Thor blinked at the mini-speech. It was the most Ron had said since his sudden appearance. The use of the word "Midgard", deliberately chosen. There was a sense of deliberation, or purpose, all about Ron, now that Thor thought of it. Every word calculated. In a strange way, it almost reminded him of Loki. But he was different again from either of them.

"No, you are using this as _penance_ for their deaths, and making yourself miserable. Probably making Harry miserable, too, come to that," said Ron, poking at his cheek with an index finger.

"All I seek for are Harry's safety and happiness," said Thor. "Do not seek to make selfishness of my sacrifice."

"But if there were no truth to it, would I be able to say it?" asked Ron. "This year is going to be different. Harder. And I don't think you're properly prepared. So, you'd better think of everything I've said, and be ready."

And Ron turned and strode out the door.

* * *

Thor couldn't get that dream out of his mind. How much truth in "Ron"'s accusations? Had there been any reality to the dream, or was subconscious guilt eating away at him? And didn't that mean that those last accusations of Ron's were true, after all?

He was not much given to thinking deeply about complex philosophical matters, because there was never an answer to them. They were the sort of thing Loki had enjoyed trying to piece together, or pull apart, and he knew that Jane and Hermione likewise had a certain fondness for the idea of seeing if reality looked different if you tilted your head, but his own situation was a bundle of different unique circumstances bound together.

For how common were any of the pieces that made up this situation? How often did gods walk amongst mortals, anymore? How often did they travel back in time to incarnate themselves? How often did a Killing Curse rebound (never)? How often were the circumstances surrounding a proper evaluation of any of the questions shrouded in mystery, and hidden under other unanswerable questions?

He stayed with the group, for the most part, keeping an eye on Ginny to ensure that she was alright. In the absence of Harry, perhaps he _did_ feel the need to monitor someone—for no better reason, perhaps, than because he was so used to watching and fretting. (_Stop being __so__ overprotective. You're smothering_, came Harry's voice, filled with fond exasperation.)

There was something about this place, or something about the mindset the dream had put him in, that encouraged him to keep his family (they were his family, right?) in sight. Percy wandered off to explore the parts of the tombs that were only available to older students, and Fred and George were off ignoring all rules, including those only there for everyone's safety, and trying to prank Percy. Bill was in his element, talking about the history of this, or a funny incident that happened _there_ (he kept the adventure out of it for later; Mum worried enough as it was). Ginny was adventurous enough to want to go into some tombs that had been "unsuitable for children". Ronald Weasley was not old enough, either; Thor couldn't go in, but didn't much care. Ginny resented the age limitation, and tried to get Thor on her side.

He considered just staying near Bill and listening to his stories, rather than taking the tour. Or perhaps staying at camp, where he might be able to finally sort out his thoughts concerning _who he was_, and _was what he was doing right_?

There were not many others besides them at camp. They'd situated themselves far from muggles, and behind a few muggle-repelling charms. There was just the entire immediate family bar Charlie, and some of Bill's colleagues, who all ignored the Weasley brood with polite indifference.

By now, Thor was used to a certain freedom that came of being habitually overlooked. He'd come into his memories used to it, and that had never quite been drowned out. Once, he'd been the centre of attention, Asgard's shining star, and that possibility still lurked in the future. For now, he'd take the opportunity to slip away unnoticed, and wander the relative safety of the desert at dusk. He knew that no man or beast could best him.

They were camped near the earthen, hidden tomb of one of the pharaohs' court mages. Nearby stood the iconic pyramids, within walking distance. But the tomb currently being explored was being hidden from prying muggle eyes with good reason.

He was unable to silence the part of him that wondered if the tales of Egyptian wizards were all tales of _wizards_. The Egyptians now might follow the new god, but there had been a time that they followed a diverse number of gods. Some of them retained associations with magic even in muggle modern lore, as his own people had. He knew just enough to know that the Egyptians claimed that their pharaohs were the living embodiment of one of their gods, descendant of a divine king and queen. It reminded him a bit of home.

Were the pharaohs embodiments—incarnations?—of their gods, or was that a mistranslation or misunderstanding? How many of the legends and myths of Egyptian mythology were true? Had their gods forsaken them? Had they forsaken their gods? Or was the whole thing a sham? If the Egyptian gods, too, were real…like the Greco-Roman pantheon, they were much older than Thor. It put things into perspective, somewhat. Shrank him down to size, maybe.

He was still thinking such thoughts, of course, as the sun began to rise, and he headed back to camp, only to be arrested by an unfamiliar voice, with an accent he couldn't place.

"Wait, child. I would speak to you, if you don't mind," the woman said. He started; he could have sworn he was alone, and almost automatically he reached for Malfoy's wand, kept in his jeans pocket for want of a better place. He turned back to face the woman. The sun rose behind her, making her difficult to see, but he was not quite as vulnerable to little things like exposure to sunlight as humans were. He could tell that she was very beautiful, dark-skinned, with an ageless quality to her face, and long, straight black hair. Her eyes seemed almost to glow, and the rising sun behind her formed something of a halo. If she had planned the moment for dramatic effect, she had chosen well.

"You seem lost," she said, stepping towards him. The light seemed to follow her, as it continued its ascent in the sky.

He had never met her before; he was sure of it. Was she a member of the camp, however? One of those who never spoke to the Weasleys? He thought he recognised and remembered all of them, but it was always possible that he had overlooked one.

"My family and I are staying in campsite A-3," he corrected her, brow furrowing. She laughed. It was not a mocking, cruel laugh, but one full of gentle amusement, as if sharing a joke with him. With a pang, he remembered _Mother_, always gentle, always patient, always kind. To think he'd briefly forgotten the overwhelming power of his grief. Half of his family, gone in the space of a mortal day. Their deaths close together even by mortal standards. He had to look away.

It was his fault that they'd died.

"I did not mean to say that you did not know where you were, although a more sarcastic person might have said, 'Well, I am in Egypt, and the Egyptians are never far from their River Nile. I shall follow it north to a town or to the sea', But that is not your way, is it, child?"

Would she call him "child " if she knew what he really was? Or _did_ she know?

What was a lone woman doing out in the middle of the desert, anyway, all alone? Despite his parents' attempts to shelter him from such knowledge, he knew the dangers women especially faced, and yet she stood here, resplendent, full of calm and poise.

Perhaps the light _was_ following her. He stood stock still, wishing that he knew Loki's means of assessing a person's sincerity. To judge a man's character.

"There is no greater vantage point in this part of the desert than the summit of a pyramid. From there, you can look out over miles and miles of open sand. But it will not show you the details you will see if you walk upon the sand."

Her raiment was all of white linen and gold, but simple, with no fancy patterns, no complicated design. Just a simple sleeveless dress, and some jewelry. Her eyes were outlined in kohl, or perhaps they naturally had that appearance. Her features were striking, eyes dark. She went barefoot. She smiled at him, holding out her hands in a gesture of welcome.

"Well met, son of Odin," she said, with a vague sort of smile. There was a moment when he froze, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. How long had it been since he'd answered to that name? Just who _was_ this woman?

Not a woman at all, was she? Hadn't he been recently thinking about the Egyptian Gods? To them, he must truly seem to be a child. It was an odd thought, one among many such recently to hound him.

He remembered his manners, and, after a moment's hesitation, favoured caution (Loki would have been proud) over pride. He gave a half-bow, one to a superior, and the woman's smile widened.

"We do not often walk these lands anymore, where so few respect and acknowledge us. It is disheartening, trying, to look around the desert, and to remember what was. The world has moved on without us. Perhaps you know the feeling."

She tilted her head back, so that her face could more readily soak in the light of the still-rising sun.

"Patience and tolerance come with time. Millennia march by, and a single year becomes trivial. We shall wait for the world to remember us once more. It will happen. And in the meantime, perhaps you might speak favourably of us to your father."

Thor bowed his head. "I may never see him again. Not him, nor the rest of my family—"

"Such gloom! They said that you were the merriest of your father's family, always flexible, with a ready smile and good cheer, a geniality bordering on naïveté."

"That was before my mother and brother were killed in an assault on Asgard," he said. "I seek for a means to prevent their deaths, and meanwhile, struggle to protect those I have come to care about of this world."

The woman smiled, a smile that was somehow vague yet reassuring. "Even in our place of exile, word reaches us from Egypt, the tale of the Boy-Who-Lived, whose fate is in the stars to vanquish a Lord of Black Magic. Perhaps you know that the brother of my husband was also skilled in such magic. But my husband and I were the ones to triumph in the end, and that was long ago. The world has mellowed since then, as have we, worn smooth by the passage of years. But I have heard tales told of a monster who exists beyond the reach of our knowledge, a lord of war, whose currency is slaughter. They say that in the future, he will come to this world. And thinking to that time, I extend a hand to you, friend. I sense that Earth will need many allies when that time comes, and that her gods should stand united."

"An alliance?" he repeated. Was she speaking of Thanos? He didn't want to think of that one, but it was the inevitable conclusion. But the way she'd led into it…did she know about Harry?

"If I ever have the liberty of speaking freely with my father again, I will extend your offer to him," he promised.

She smiled, and nodded. "And you are a man of your word," she said. "Once, I think, they said similar of your brother. Then, they said 'but you must be very cautious what his word is'. But you tell me he is dead. A pity, for I too was a great wielder of magic, in my time. I would like to have met him. Someday, I hope you will bring him hither, but in the meantime, please take this, as proof of the sincerity of my offer."

She held out her left hand, and something as big as her hand, and dark, appeared there. He saw that it was a rock in the shape of an insect, but hadn't the background to understand the significance.

"It is not much, but I possess the ability to call souls back from death. If ever his death seems irreversible, press this amulet into his chest, and invoke his name. But take care: it will only work once. Death is not a game, to be cheated at. If I were you, from what I have heard of the exploits of Harry Potter, I would not give this relic to him. Do not let him know of its existence, that there exists even a chance to escape certain death. Nor should you use it in the presence of others…but perhaps you realised that, yourself."

She reached out to take his arm, and to lift it, and to press the stone beetle into it. She gave him a mysterious smile. "May it bring you and Harry Potter good fortune. Do not forget my offer of aid," she said, and, spreading her arms wide again, was again shrouded in light. As the light died down, Thor saw that she was no longer there.

The sun seemed to rise much more quickly after she left, as if to atone for the ridiculous slowing it seemed to have undertaken whilst they had spoken. He was late back to camp.


	53. I Promised to Run Away

**Chapter Fifty-Three: I Promised to Run Away**

Yes, he should have seen it coming. Aunt Marge hated him quite as much as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, but visited so seldom that she had little opportunity to vent her loathing of him. In her opinion, evidently, he should have been drowned as an infant…as should his mother.

_If she knew the truth_, he thought to himself, but took little solace from the thought. Maybe Lily Evans was a goddess bound into mortality; maybe she wasn't. But she was his mother, and right now, he was leaning towards whatever view painted her in the best light.

And he needed no one to tell him what that was. Regardless of what it signified for him, his mind was pursuing unfamiliar paths, seldom trod, the lodgings of that part of himself he usually disavowed. It was the only way not to lash out spectacularly at his "family", possibly resulting in one or more murders. He was _wroth_. The other magic hummed just beneath the surface, clear temptation, inviting its use. _And the Ministry shall never know. How could they? They are only human…._

Rather than commit mass murder, he stormed out of the dining room, kicked the door of the cupboard so hard that the wood splintered, and then finished by kicking it down. He pulled out his trunk, stuffed still with most of his school supplies, placing his wand into his pocket for ready access, and then marched upstairs to retrieve the rest of his belongings, and, of course, Hedwig's cage, which he, after a moment's thought about how ungainly it was to carry, did as he should have done last year, and shrunk it to fit into his trunk.

Uncle Vernon did not catch up to him to confront him before he'd already retrieved everything and was striding out the door.

"You come back here!" he roared, but Harry was unfazed. He'd seen Uncle Vernon's wrath before, and he remembered other beings more terrifying than this one. "Come back here and set her right!"

It occurred to him that perhaps Uncle Vernon's anger was merely a front for fear.

_Are you afraid? Do you fear me? You still have little knowledge of the power I possess, but perhaps a glimmer of that knowledge—_

He shook his head, both to clear away those unhelpful thoughts, and as a refusal. "No. She deserved it. You heard what she said. No one has a right to speak thus about the dead."

He slunk out of the house, and marched down the street at a good pace, ignoring the great weight of his trunk full of possessions. He walked for quite a while. But his anger, once roused, was slow to ebb. He should have known. He should have seen it coming…but he had thought that he had more self-control—

Where was he, again? He frowned, looking around for street signs, and then he saw it. A dark figure, bulky but low-set, coming perhaps to his shoulders, lurked in the bushes. His sixth sense warned against using the other magic here and now, and he trusted it. But that left wizarding magic…he might have performed accidental magic back at the Dursleys, but casting a spell deliberately, here and now, seemed foolhardy. All the same…he wanted to know what that shape was. Perhaps it was something innocuous, but a quick glance was enough to show him that it was alive, and his sixth sense warned that it could be anything…friend or foe.

What to do? Perhaps he could focus the other magic through his wand, and make it resemble wizarding magic. That idea seemed to satisfy his sixth sense, but no sooner had he held out his hand did he have to fall to the side, rolling to his feet as a strange, triple-decker purple bus appeared where he'd just been. It took him a moment to see that it bore the label _The Knight Bus_.

Oh. Well, he never _had_ asked Ron just how you went about calling the Bus. He guessed that this was his answer. But it had sort of appeared out of nowhere unexpectedly, nearly run him over.

A boy slightly older than he stepped off the bus, and began to speak in a professional, formal way, declaring the purpose and usage of The Knight Bus. Harry paid him no heed, thinking of the shape he'd seen in the bushes.

"Whatcha looking at there?" asked the boy, who had dropped the formal demeanour. Harry frowned, glancing back at the hedge.

"Nothing. I just thought I saw something there. Like a dog, but massive…."

The boy's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"See here now, you did flag us down, didn't you?" asked the boy, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion.

Harry shrugged. He supposed he had, after a fashion. "This bus goes anywhere on land?" he confirmed, remembering what Ron had said. It had seemed strange at the time…but he was realising that that oddity was nothing next to the bus itself.

"Yup," said the boy. He seemed a bit proud of this, as if personally responsible. Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"How much, then, would it cost to be dropped off at Diagon Alley?"

* * *

Several hours, or perhaps several years, later, The Knight Bus stopped _in_ Diagon Alley, raising the question of how Harry could possibly never have encountered it before. Also, he was fairly sure that taking it was not for the faint of heart, and constituted taking your own life into your hands. Why had Ron never mentioned any of this? He would have to up his reimbursement; when calculating monetary reimbursement, he hadn't realised that you would also need to pay for emotional, physical, and mental scarring.

Ah, well, time for that later. He hadn't had the time to pull himself together from the harrying bus ride before he'd run right into the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Not that he was supposed to know that, he supposed. Although…surely the man must appear in the _Daily Prophet_ occasionally, at the very least?

Better to feign ignorance. Safer. But just why had he lain in wait for Harry here, anyway? He must have been waiting for Harry (did they have some means of tracking an underage wizard?), because the moment Harry climbed off the bus, dizzy, the world spinning in a most inappropriate way, and trying to recover his land legs, Fudge clapped a hand on his shoulder, and steered him toward the Leaky Cauldron.

"Who?" he managed to say, although whether he was pretending still to be Neville Longbottom for Stan Shunpike's sake, or whether he was trying to ask who Fudge was, even he himself wasn't sure.

"What did you call Neville, sir?" Stan asked, and Harry sighed. He felt that he would be justified if he pouted, here. He'd gone the entire bus ride with "Ern" and Stan none the wiser. He'd learnt quite a bit, too, despite it being a constant struggle to hang onto his stomach. Sirius Black, the fugitive, was in truth a wizard, who escaped from Azkaban, where he'd been imprisoned for killing thirteen people with one curse.

His name sounded familiar, but Harry couldn't place it whilst being dressed down by Minister Fudge. Fudge took him into the Leaky Cauldron's pub bar area, requested private seating, and then proceeded, in said private seating arrangements, to give a Harry a rundown of all the unimportant stuff he'd missed: Marge had been deflated and restored to normal (as had the cupboard door, sadly), Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had, begrudgingly and even less fortunately, been persuaded to take him back the following summer (Harry swallowed his protests and tried to look pleased by recent events), and Harry was a clever boy for taking The Knight Bus and coming straight to Diagon Alley.

Harry did not say that he'd come here because it was a part of the Wizarding World, that they'd have a harder time of finding and catching him, let alone kicking him out, if he were there, and besides, Diagon Alley was one of the central wizarding hubs. He didn't say that he'd planned on going into hiding, if need be, at least temporarily, until he'd found some means of contacting Dumbledore and pleading his case.

He nodded, protested, and made grudging agreements in all the right places, wishing that Fudge would shut up and go away already. He was sure that the Knight Bus was bad for your health, or at least he himself seemed to have misplaced a few vital organs. Also, he _needed_ to spend some time alone, and think exhaustively over all the information he now had. And also, maybe, get some work done on his summer work, now he could do it in the open.

He was not to leave Diagon Alley to go out into London, which was galling, but Fudge had made him promise, and he had order forms, still, from the bookstore he'd found. But there was still plenty to do in Diagon Alley. He recalled all the shops that he'd wanted to see last year, and the year before that, but Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid had prevented it. Sure, he might have brought Ginny along, but by then, he'd felt he'd stayed out of eyesight long enough, and Mrs. Weasley was sure to be wondering where he was.

Still, Fudge managed to extract his promise from Harry, and then off he went, to do whatever bungling ministers did when they weren't inexplicably waiting for famous teenage boys.

The barman gave him the key to his room, and Harry brought his trunk and owl cage with him, to find Hedwig waiting for him. He smiled at her as he entered, glad just to be rid of Fudge _and_ the Dursleys. You couldn't shoot the messenger, he knew, or rather, that wasn't just (although he was no Hufflepuff), but the fact was and remained that he'd come in person to the school to take away Hagrid and Dumbledore. He did not make a very good first impression on Harry.

Now, of course, he was inclined to be much more generous. There were still three weeks left in the summer vacation, and they'd be Dursley-free. Hermione was off…somewhere, doing something, but Ron had promised that he'd be staying at Diagon Alley too, before he and his siblings left for Hogwarts. All in all, things were looking up.

* * *

Freedom was an experience that never grew old. Florean Fortescue seemed quite fond of him, although Harry had never been polite (or rather, _foolish_) enough to risk introducing himself in their first meeting, he seemed to take pity on the boy who sat by himself working his way through his summer homework in silence, and bothering no one. He gave him free ice cream, and was glad to talk about what he knew about magic (and magic history, perhaps more importantly).

Quality Quidditch Supplies unfortunately had put in stock for a new brand of broomstick, but Harry, after analysing it, shrugged, knowing that there was no point in staring at a broom so expensive that it was marked "price on request". He needed to spend his funds on paying for his textbooks and other school supplies predominantly. There was no point tormenting himself; he gave the shop a wide berth after that. He had great faith in Ron to bring him to the store, anyway, so that they could discuss the Firebolt.

Oh, well.

Harry went to Flourish and Blotts first, as he was taking new subjects. There was a wizard specially in charge of handling the store copies of the _Monster Book of Monsters_, and he seemed to be at his wits' end. In striking contrast to their usual demeanour, the man was short and rude to him, shoving him aside to reach for heavy-duty protective mitts.

"Hang on, I've already got one of those," Harry said, holding out a hand to grab the man's arm before he could do something pointlessly stupid. Internally, he breathed a sigh of relief. The book had, after all, been a gift from Hagrid, who had once smuggled a Norwegian Ridgeback into his cabin (as if that could be forgotten).

The wizard manning the display heaved an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness! I've been bitten twelve times already… no one else want to handle them, consumer liability and all… and the mess—stop that! Stop that!" he yelled, distracted by two of the books seizing a third and beginning to pull it apart. He seized a nearby poker and began to separate the two.

Harry shook his head, entering the arena and freezing the two offending books, almost wishing for his mother's armour, because he was starting to realise that although they were small, they were vicious, and he was heavily outnumbered. He expanded a sheet of ice out in a wave, and it froze everything it touched.

"Sorry," he said, feeling a bit sheepish. "But if you have any twine or ribbon or something, perhaps we could use that. I'll make sure the ice doesn't ruin the books…."

The man hurried away, looking slightly awed, and came back with a spool of twine. Harry set to a difficult task of dispersing the ice he'd formed into pure magic, without letting it melt, and then, casting a _reparo_, bound the book shut with the twine, and then turned to the next. And the next. And the next. Before he got too far in, the wizard in charge (watching with evident fascination), cast a multiplying spell on the twine, ensuring that Harry never run out. Harry worked his way through the rest of the books in silence.

"You know," the wizard said at the end. "These are _books_ and therefore meant to be read. How are our customers going to read them if they're sealed shut?"

"How are they going to read them if they're vicious and violent, and missing pages besides?" asked Harry. "You can give them the twine for a fee, or for free, warn them as to _why_ they were bound shut, and remind _them_ that these are books, and therefore meant for reading, not kept bound on a bookshelf somewhere. Do you want me to look for your invisible books?"

The man blinked, but was beyond questioning whether or not Harry thought he could find those.

"What year are you in?" he asked, still with that odd look of awe, as he surveyed the now fairly peaceful monster book pen.

"Third year," said Harry, in a would-be casual voice. "Say, just how many of these books did you order, anyway?"

The man was clearly about to say "far too many", but he stopped himself. "A couple hundred, I think."

Harry looked back at him. "That many third years chose 'Care of Magical Creatures'?"

The man was more than happy to explain. "There aren't that many third years taking it, no. But all the upper years have to buy a copy of the book, too, because it's the new text for the course. We buy a few extra copies, too, from the publisher, to account for accidents, and the like. Smart enough to up that number by five before purchasing this lot."

Harry's face lit up. "You have extra textbooks? Say…would you mind if I bought the course books for Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes? Just for side study…."

The man beamed at him. "Oh, far be it for me to complain about those books seeing use…are you taking Divination or Muggle Studies?"

Harry smiled back. "Divination," he said.

Harry thought he might have made a friend. The man was even kind enough to look the other way when Harry decided to purchase the book on death omens, despite being warned against it, after he'd seen a picture of a black dog on the cover….

* * *

It was odd, how much freedom he now had, come to that. He couldn't _remember_ the last time he'd had the liberty to go where he wished, and do as he pleased (within a small area, of course, but still…). The answer was probably one he wouldn't like, something to do with the prince's life, and not his own. Since that entire area of his mind was best left avoided, he left the analysis alone, for the moment.

He had explored Diagon Alley quite thoroughly, and read quite a bit of his school material (and his non-school material side-interests) by the time Hermione and the Weasleys arrived, a week before the start of term. Well, a week and a half before (on Sunday the Twentieth). He'd finished all of his schoolwork, and was sure that Hermione had, too, but Ron was a different matter. Still, _maybe_…. But did he even have time to, in Egypt?

He'd skimmed through the omens book, looking for information on the dog on the cover. What he found was…disconcerting. It was easy to see why many of these omens of death found their way into the book, from the banshee to the Grim. But it had been weeks since he'd seen that creature—if it even had been a dog—and there had been nothing terribly spectral about it. He figured it was just a stray. Its hair had been shaggy and long, but it had looked…abandoned. Uncared-for. And its eyes had been neither glowing nor red. He was certain he would have noticed that, even in the brief span of time.

Not a death omen, then, he decided, and put the matter to bed.

It was a couple of days later that Ron had arrived, and he'd been pretty successful in forgetting the encounter altogether. Were it not for the fact that all of his worldly possessions were being kept with him in his trunk (and could hardly be entrusted to the Dursleys), he would have left the book at home. As it was, he was bringing it, along with his course books for the previous two years, with him to Hogwarts. This meant that he now had quite a few textbooks in his trunk, and was grateful for Hagrid's economy and intelligence in picking out his trunk, which was sturdy, and roomy enough for the entire seven-year course set. He suspected that there was also a feather-light charm on it, but he couldn't quite recall hearing it mentioned.

Still, it had stayed him in good stead, as they said. Much better than the Weasleys' supplies, which, as with everything else they owned, were frayed and patched and old, third and fourth-hand.

Speaking of the Weasleys, there they quite suddenly were, a week and a half before term started. He found Ron first, eating an ice cream with enthusiasm, whilst talking to Hermione. The overflowing carry-tote from Flourish and Blotts showed where Hermione had been for the past few hours. Ron had probably gone too, although…hadn't he said his whole family was coming to stay at the Leaky Cauldron? Perhaps it was the same situation as last year, with Mrs. Weasley and Mr. Weasley rushing about gathering school supplies.

Harry, slightly wary of their enthusiasm, approached the table, looking around to ensure no one was watching him approach. Hermione was passionately discussing some subject that Harry would probably find boring, and which Ron definitely did—he seemed to be casting about for a reprieve.

Harry could have used the invisibility cloak to sneak up on them, but decided against it. There weren't that many people out and about anyway, at this time of day, and he didn't much feel like returning to his room to retrieve it. By now, he was sure that the mere sight of it would incite yet another lecture from Ron, and that was hardly the mood for a reunion. Besides, there was structure to these things: they went to Hogwarts, near the end of the year, he was dragged deep under the school, where the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher would try to kill him, or worse, and he'd be forced to rely on his wits, having given the invisibility cloak over to Ron.

Somewhere over the course of the ensuing battle, he'd die, and after his recovery stay in the Hospital Wing, Ron would come over, hand back over the invisibility cloak, and lecture him, scolding him particularly harshly for dying. A few days later, they boarded the train to return home, where after a period of suffering under the Dursleys, they'd return to Hogwarts, and the cycle would begin again.

By now, surely even Ron had noticed the trend—even if he didn't connect the sight of the invisibility cloak with their end-of-year adventures, somehow.

As if was, Ron's face lit up as he caught sight of Harry, and then he was very nearly crushed to death yet again by the joint might of Ron and Hermione, either of whom, working alone, had hugs that would kill the average human. It was a miracle that he was neither suffocated by Hermione, nor compacted by Ron. But, although he had every reason to, he didn't flinch or draw back. He just shook his head, and bore through it with as much poise as he could muster. He might have made more protestation had he been able to breathe.

"Harry!" Ron cried. "You do look much better now than you did last year."

"I've been talking with Ron about my new classes," Hermione gushed, "But we can talk about Ron's trip to Egypt, instead. I've wanted to go ever since I read in _A History of Magic_ that—"

"It's good to see the two of you, too," Harry said, with the most sincere smile he could muster. His stay in Diagon Alley _had_ been good for him, he had to admit. He'd been able to eat a decent amount of food a day (preparation for Hogwarts), and the lack of necessity, the freedom and safety of not to have to constantly watch his back, and watch his step, had made him lower his guard a bit.

Part of the reason he hadn't flinched or withdrawn. Still, the Dursleys had left an indelible mark on him. He knew it, could feel their brand burnt down deep. Ugh. No, he was not going to think about _them_ just now.

"Ah, yes. It is good to see you again," Ron agreed. "And, with my apologies for being late, might I wish you a happy birthday? Fred and George helped me to buy you a present. It never ceases to amaze me that you have somehow earned your way into their good graces…or what passes for them. Happy birthday, Harry."

He was reaching into a bag at his side as he spoke (he must have brought it with him _just in case_ he ran into Harry. But Ron's dad worked at the Ministry, so he had more cause than most to know Harry's whereabouts).

He pulled out an odd looking mirror, indistinct shapes swirling at it. Harry cocked his head, brow furrowed in confusion as he studied it.

"…A broken mirror? Seven years' bad luck?"

"As if you need any more of _that_," Hermione said, shuddering. Harry nodded an acknowledgement. She was wringing her hands. "I'm sorry, Harry…my gift was too big…I left it back at the Leaky Cauldron."

"That's alright," Harry said, beaming at them both. "Really. I'm not used to getting gifts…just seeing you two again is enough."

Why did he mean it? That was a strange thought.

He looked down at the not-mirror in his hands.

"It's called a 'Foe-Glass'," Ron began, and Hermione's eyes lit up. She was about to interject, but Harry frowned at her, and she thought better of it. "It shows you the whereabouts of your enemies—how close they are to finding you. Given our past two years at Hogwarts, I thought it apt. It comes with instructions!"

He seemed quite pleased with this fact, as if personally responsible. Harry decided to overlook it.

"Oh! That _does_ sound useful—" The instructions were hidden in a cavity of the base, for safe-keeping, as he would later discover. It detailed the usage of Foe-Glasses, giving recommendations on placement, and a detailed warranty. It did seem rather useful—but you'd have to watch it a lot. Still, better some warning than none.

He thanked Ron, and Hermione later, when she handed over the Broomstick Servicing Kit she'd bought for him. By then, they'd already reunited with the rest of the Weasley clan.

They stopped at the Leaky Cauldron, primarily so that Hermione could drop off her books, with Harry surreptitiously glancing at them, to see that, in fact, she seemed to have taken _absolutely__ every_ elective Hogwarts offered, including, inexplicably, _Muggle Studies_. Harry would never understand her. Ever.

Ginny, by contrast, seemed thrilled to see him, if still a bit flustered over the events of last year. She seemed torn between trying to corner him to ask him how his summer had been in private, and avoiding him, as she had last summer.

He ended up cornering her to ask her how she had liked Egypt. She could, at least, empathise a bit more about Ron being an overprotective big brother, and despite how heartwarming their reunion had been, and no matter how glad he'd been to see Ron and Hermione again, he spent quite some time exchanging complaints with Ginny.

But that, of course, was not the end of his summer. His could never have such a peaceful ending…now could it?


	54. Pets Are Family

**Chapter Fifty-Four: Pets Are Family**

One of the benefits of the Weasleys winning the equivalent of the lottery was that Harry didn't have to drag Ron into Ollivander's to get a new wand (he wasn't even sure he _could_; Ron was incredibly strong). Instead, the Weasleys had taken him to Ollivander's themselves, and Ron's new willow wand was amongst the things the three of them discussed before heading back out to Diagon Alley. Ron said something about getting his pet rat, Scabbers, checked over, and Hermione claimed that her parents had given her some money to buy herself a gift for her birthday. Harry noted down to himself that Hermione's birthday was in September (September Nineteenth? He'd have to ask her later).

Although Hermione wanted an owl, the local pet store Magical Menagerie, true to its name, sold all manner of pets, including owls, but they were also the closest thing Diagon Alley had to a vet. It was the logical first stop. Harry'd had no way of knowing what was waiting for them there.

Crookshanks had the face and long hair of a domestic Persian, but was bandy-legged (probably the source of his name), and a burnt orange colour. He made a grand entrance launching himself off Ron's head trying to get to Scabbers. Harry was a bit perplexed at that behaviour—there were plenty of other rats in the store that the cat seemed content to leave alone: why fixate on Scabbers? But then, Scabbers _was_ a different kind of rat.

He was, the lady behind the counter said, a common garden rat, and twelve years was an impossibly long time for them to live. The Weasleys must have been taking very good care of him indeed—or, perhaps, longevity was one of his super secret special magic powers the woman was going on about.

Ron showed an admirable degree of loyalty to the pet he already had by taking the rat tonic instead of a new rat—although Harry doubted the stuff would do any good. He kept it to himself, but he suspected that Scabbers had just about hit the end of his luck.

"I can't justify replacing Scabbers just because his health is declining," Ron told the shop witch in his firmest, most unshakable voice. But then he'd had to chase Scabbers out of the store, and Harry, glancing back and forth between the last known whereabouts of Hermione, and Ron, opted to follow the latter.

"Perhaps heatstroke?" Harry asked, knowing absolutely nothing about medicine, and even less, somehow, about the veterinary kind.

Ron frowned, that considering, contemplative frown people get when they were trying to remember something. Harry gave him the time and space to think of it. "He _has_ been looking off ever since Egypt…but it is possible that he has been unwell for longer than that, and I did not—"

Harry waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure you would have noticed, Ron. You're the most overbearing person I know."

For once, that was meant as a compliment.

"Where is Hermione, do you think?" asked Ron, glancing back to the store, and raising himself to his feet. Harry shrugged.

"There are no books in the Magical Menagerie. But they do have owls. Perhaps she thought it best to make the most of our stop here."

It was to both of their surprise (and Ron's quiet dismay) that Hermione emerged from the store a few seconds later with a basket slung over her shoulder. Sticking out of the basket were a ginger claw, and a squashed feline face. Ron seemed at a loss for words for a moment.

"You forgot your rat tonic, Ron," said Hermione, slapping the bottle she was carrying in her free hand into Ron's. "And don't look that way. He was just a bit overexcited; he didn't _mean_ to land on your head."

Ron reached up to run his fingers through his hair. They came away red, and Harry winced in sympathy. Ron seemed to still be trying to find an appropriate response, but his fists were starting to clench. Unfortunately, even if Harry tried to warn Hermione to stop, she was just as stubborn as the two of them. There would be no stopping her until she'd made her point. Harry braced himself for the impending explosion, instead.

"Poor Crookshanks…the shop witch said he'd been locked up in there for _ages_…no one wanted him," she continued, scratching the head sticking out of the basket under what Harry assumed was its chin.

"And did you not think to question why that might be? Perhaps there is good reason that he—"

"Oh, leave off, Ron!" Hermione snapped, as Harry facepalmed in the background. Well, he couldn't remember a time the two of them had had a fight. It was bound to happen eventually.

"And what of Scabbers? How is he to recover his energy and strength with a cat around?" Ron demanded, folding his arms and even seeming to brace his feet in a battle stance. Watch out, Hermione!

Harry tried to think of a way to stop this before it turned too ugly.

"There are plenty of cats in the gryffindor dorms. This is hardly a new problem. No one has yet lost a pet…I assume there are some sort of wards—"

Harry sighed. She probably shouldn't have used the word "assume" when it came to the welfare of someone under Ron's protection—even a pet rat.

"Scabbers was better able to hide before he fell ill. Furthermore, none of the cats have shown interest in him before, unlike your new cat—"

"But he'll be in the girls dorm, with me, and Scabbers will be in the boys dorm, with you," she began, but this argument was stupid enough that Harry was almost personally offended.

"You have said yourself that while the staircase leading to the girls dorms prevents boys from climbing it, the reverse is not true. Christmas, I think, of our first year. There are no doors barring Crookshanks from entering or leaving as he pleases. Scabbers, therefore, has less recourse, and is more vulnerable."

Ron glanced at Harry, as if wondering why Harry would speak on his behalf. Hermione's eyes flooded with tears.

"But—but—"

Harry decided to say something more before she could start crying. She didn't often do that anymore, and he couldn't blame her for not wanting to part with Crookshanks. He wouldn't want to give up Hedwig, even if her wings had been clipped and she could no longer fly. He'd heard people call it "falling in love". Pets were members of the family, too, a bit like children. And Hermione clearly already adored Crookshanks.

"I don't think you have to get rid of him. Perhaps if we got a terrarium, or something, to keep Scabbers in, something cat proof, with some sort of protective or warning spells on it…."

"And why should Scabbers not be free to go where he pleases?" Ron asked, rounding on Harry. Harry sighed, one hand over his face, as if he could prevent the inevitable headache from arising.

"Just until he's recovered," Harry said. "For his own protection. There are more dangers than merely cats for a creature as small as Scabbers."

To his relief, that seemed to settle the current argument. Ron and Hermione nodded their agreement to this new plan, and Ron returned to the Magical Menagerie to attempt to find a cage with a handle that he could afford, Harry following.

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes, and said, "That reminds me. I ought to have given you more reimbursement for the cost of your visits. I took the Knight Bus here, and I'm not sure how I _survived_."

As usual, Ron took umbrage to Harry making light of his own demise, and Harry shrugged, smiling, and said, "Anyway, this was my idea. You shouldn't have to pay for it."

He picked out a cage, himself, and then spent fifteen minutes pestering the witch behind the counter for details about it, and whether or not any spells had been put on it. Ron stood back, aghast, as Harry somehow managed to talk down the price, which was still more than a simple cage ought to be, and then handed the cage over to Ron. It fell to the floor with a clatter, and then Ron seemed to thaw, perhaps at the sudden noise, reaching down to grab the ring-hold.

They discovered that Scabbers did not like the cage, but there was little to be done about that fact. He'd just have to suffer it, at least in his convalescence.

Hermione was decent enough to have waited outside for the two of them. She carried the hefty load that was her new cat with stolid patience, as the three of them wandered Diagon Alley, looking into the various shops. Harry felt only a bit the odd man out for not having his pet with him, but he shrugged. They couldn't enter any eatery, nor most of the shops, but they could window shop.

Ron found the Firebolt. There was still quite the crowd of admirers drooling over the glass. Harry frowned, huffed, folded his arms, and looked away.

"I _do_ have a Nimbus Two Thousand," he said. "That has served me well. I shouldn't complain."

Ron looked slightly wistful for a moment. But by that point they'd been out wandering the streets for over an hour, and Harry thought that they should go check in with the rest of the Weasleys.

The Drs. Granger were also there, that first night, perfectly polite, if somewhat horrified when they learnt that Hermione was the only one present (except for the doctors themselves) who had ever had a dental checkup. They seemed inclined to make appointments for the lot, until they came to themselves and realised their current surroundings.

Did wizards perhaps not get cavities or gingivitis? Harry very much wanted to know, for a few minutes, as he listened to the talk around the table. But he forgot about it, of course, over the fuss of Percy being made Head Boy. If there were any way to make him _smugger_….

At least Harry was stationed at the other end of the table from Percy. He'd chosen to sit with Ron and Hermione, which also saved them (although Hermione might not have minded, come to it).

Dinner was a pleasant affair, and Mrs. Weasley seemed in a very good mood, perhaps because she didn't have to cook. Or perhaps her holiday had done her good.

The Grangers minus Hermione left the next day, leaving Hermione at the mercy of almost the entire Weasley clan. Her only ally was Harry, who was hardly reliable as a bulwark. As seemed only a necessary precaution, they avoided Percy for the rest of their stay, which was easy enough to do; he was most often to be found upstairs in his room, polishing his Head Boy badge, or reading a book he'd bought during their trip to Diagon Alley. It was called _Prefects Who Gained Power_, which seemed a bit…slytherin, but Fred and George pointed this out often enough that Harry felt no need to do the same.

Time seemed to run at triple speed, and it seemed that the very next day was September First. Everyone was packing in a frenzy, even Hermione, and missing belongings were being sought for all over the place. The bustle was a bit much for Harry, and he decided to go for a walk to clear his head a bit.

It had the opposite effect, as he'd overheard a heated argument between Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Mr. Weasley argued that Harry should be told that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban to kill him. "You don't understand, Molly. The guards say he's been talking over and over again in his sleep, always the same words: 'he's at Hogwarts', 'he's at Hogwarts'. They say Black is insane—if he wasn't when he went to Azkaban, he will be now. Black lost everything the night You-Know-Who fell, and if you ask me, he's hoping that killing Harry will somehow resurrect his master…."

Mrs. Weasley, by contrast, firmly insisted that he was still "just a child", and needed protecting. "For God's sake, he's _happy_ not knowing!" she cried.

Happiness was transitory. Harry was well-aware of that fact. He now had reason to begrudge Mrs. Weasley for keeping vital information from him, but Mr. Weasley was hardly better, talking about him and Ron heading into the Forbidden Forest as if they'd done it on a lark, slightly more justified in recalling to mind that Harry had run away from home (but he didn't know Harry's _reasoning_ for running away). Still…although Mr. Weasley seemed of the mind that Harry sought for trouble, at least he wasn't advocating that Harry be kept in the dark.

Whispers. Rumours. _Not one __**hint**_. Devastation. Destruction. Ruin. Shame. Pain. Revenge. The three linked together, now the cycle was set in motion.

_This is different_, he told himself.

_Is it?_ asked the part of his mind he had disavowed. Until now, he hadn't realised how tightly clenched his fists were.

Oh, yes, an infamous criminal had escaped Azkaban, and the current consensus amongst the most knowledgeable was that he must have done so to kill Harry….

But why tell _Harry_ of that fact?

He pressed himself into the wall, as if to meld into the wood. They did not notice him there as they walked past, still arguing. Harry had long since mastered the art of escaping notice.

He continued on his way, his mind now in turmoil, thinking at a rapid pace through all he had just heard. He knew that there would be no avoiding telling Ron, at the very least, and Hermione was also his best friend.

This complicated matters.

* * *

August Thirty-First was confusing, giving him yet another angle, yet another viewpoint, into the entire mess, further muddying the waters. Had he been certain that his Mother was real, he would have taken her word for the facts of what had occurred, twelve years ago, even though she had not herself been present; she made a strong case, based on her familiarity with Sirius Black, and other knowledge that she would not share with him for months, yet. He'd made the mistake of telling Mother what Mr. Weasley had said, and then had had to backtrack, to explain the escape of Sirius Black from Azkaban, a feat that none before had accomplished.

"Azkaban…" she said, tone grim as she stared into nothing. "Abode of the Azkaban guards, that they rightly call 'dementors', beings of vile countenance, the embodiment of despair. 'Dementors', they call them, for they instil madness in those too long exposed. Demons. Wraiths. Creatures of evil, they infest the darkest places, and feed off the happiness of men. Yet the Wizarding World decided to make use of them, to give them prey that could not escape. That is why men fear Azkaban—not only that it is said to be inescapable, located on a remote island, far out, in the bitter cold of the great North Sea. Azkaban. Yes, I know of that place. Severus told me of it first. But that was long ago. Before."

"Sirius Black escaped," Harry said, voice very soft. "It is, therefore, possible. I wonder how—"

"_I_ would rather know why he was there at all!" Mother said, eyes blazing with indignation. "I can think of no crime he might have committed warranting such a sentence."

"The murder of thirteen people—with a single curse, I was told," Harry offered, and she shook her head with great force.

"No, it does not fit. It is all wrong. Sirius would never murder the innocent. He had his faults—including a raging temper, he was impulsive, rash, quick to anger, but brilliant. If he had murdered _twenty_ people in cold blood, he had the skill with which to escape undetected, and with none the wiser. He was clever—perhaps too clever for his own good. When I reflect back on it, that friendship, the affection I had for him, perhaps stems from forgotten memories of another boy who was impulsive and rash, quick to anger, but steadfast and loyal. But Sirius was also sharp-tongued, witty, thinking readily on his feet, and he wrought more havoc with his friends in his first year in Hogwarts than I believe the school has seen in any pupils, before or since. He reminded me of both of my sons, of happier times, although I did not at the time recall them. Tell me, my son: would _Thor_ have indiscriminately slaughtered defenceless bystanders, thus?"

Perhaps, in certain situations, Harry thought, but did not say aloud. Once Thor had learnt that his actions had consequences…he'd channeled his violence into productive outlets. And it was that tempered, smelted Thor that Mother spoke of.

"No," he said, glancing down. "He defended the innocent. He put himself in harm's way, that they be spared. He is a protector."

"And Sirius is a loyal friend, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. James and he were as close as brothers. They were very similar. Both of them were much too smart for any ordinary education; they found the curriculum at Hogwarts unchallenging—boring, you might say—and, as you have yourself, turned to teaching themselves other magics, delving into the secrets of magic that lay behind what we were taught in school. Then tell me, my son, as they now say that you are the protector of Hogwarts: would you then kill those who have done no harm, who pose no threat?"

Again, he answered the question she meant, instead of the question she asked. "No, Mother," he said. His head was bowed. He didn't know what to say, but couldn't meet her eyes.

If she was real, then she was correct about his identity. And if she were correct, then, willing or not, mind-controlled or not, he had innocent blood on his hands. A distasteful thought. Was it more painful to be mistaken for a murderer, or to _be_ one?

"Somehow, somewhere, you are missing vital information. Something to make this situation plausible. I will tell you this: the crimes that they say Sirius committed he did not. Who the true culprit is I cannot say for sure, but I have my suspicions. Do not set yourself against Sirius Black, my son. Stay your hand, and hear him out, if ever your paths should cross. By contrast, if you should ever meet the wizard they name Peter Pettigrew…keep your guard up, and give no quarter. Azkaban is where he belongs, although he may have the means to escape, if Sirius has managed. Do not judge on outward appearance, my son. You of all people should know that rarely are people or situations what they appear."

Harry bowed his head. The main obstacle to the effect of her words was that he believed, still, as he must to retain his sanity (as he told himself) that, as he was convinced of the unreality of his dreams, none of the information thus acquired was trustworthy, either. Had he believed, he might have spared himself—and those he loved—much pain. But such knowledge is difficult to ascertain until after the fact.

Perhaps, in the end, his delusion, too, was for the best.


	55. A Different Magic

**Chapter Fifty-Five: A Different Magic**

There were a few commonalities about the day Harry would return to Hogwarts that would remain immutable from year to year. September First was always the day the train left the station for Hogwarts, even when it fell on a Sunday. This year it fell on a Wednesday. But because it was September First, the previous night was always the last night of August, August Thirty-First, and Harry, therefore, always had a chance to speak with his mother, to discuss matters, important and not, concerning the upcoming year, the past, the future, whatever. Sometimes, this left him rather more tired than he would otherwise have been, but he wouldn't give it up for anything (as he rather thought he'd demonstrated first year).

After the consistent, immutable facts about the train ride, there were then a few that Harry thought he could call reliable facts: he would ride it with Ron and Hermione in a compartment to themselves, Malfoy would show up halfway through to torment them, the shop witch pushing the trolley cart showing up an hour or so before Malfoy did.

This year was already not one for consistency. Harry, looking back, would consider this foreshadowing for the rest of his rather odd year, for that was not the only "constant" set awry this year.

The first sign, therefore, might be when the only "unoccupied" compartment that they could find was occupied by an adult, hair prematurely grey, with a tattered brown suitcase emblazoned with peeling letters forming the name: _Professor R. J. Lupin_.

Harry had to wonder whether the trunk was second-hand, or whether the man had bought it new, and it had just seen much wear since. _Was_ he Professor R. J. Lupin?

He frowned to himself. He was pretty sure that Mother had mentioned a "Lupin", or rather _somebody-or-other_ Lupin, whose name might have begun with an "r". Or maybe a "b". He couldn't quite recall. If it had even been Lupin.

Perhaps he should pay more attention to the words of his mother. Perhaps he'd heard the name of "Lupin" elsewhere, and misattributed it. But if he _hadn't_, it lent credence to his mother's words, and therefore her arguments….

Harry was, perhaps, a bit moodier than usual after this. But he managed to inform Ron and Hermione of Mr. Weasley's warning without snapping too much. Poor, poor Mr. Weasley. He should have cut the man some slack by admitting he'd (accidentally) eavesdropped on the man's conversation. But old habits died hard, and if the man was _that_ incautious…well, there might be an occasion later on when Harry overheard something important.

Of course, it _had_ come at the cost of almost missing the train. But he'd been obliged to leave before he could give Mr. Weasley his word that he wouldn't seek out Black…whatever that was about. If his mother was right, then he _should_ seek out Sirius Black, if for no other reason than to get to the bottom of the real story. As it was, it was almost inevitable that he'd end up having to do the detective work and solve the case just to survive this year.

Happy thoughts, right?

Ron and Hermione seemed rather more alarmed than he at the news that Black was (supposedly) escaped from Azkaban just to kill Harry. Hermione began shaking, as if she were _this close_ to wringing her hands, blabbering on about how she'd heard that Azkaban was impregnable, and inescapable. Only a powerful wizard could have broken in or out, it was like Hogwarts, etc. etc.. Harry was almost in a bad enough mood to remind her that Hogwarts had a regular _supply_ of "dark wizards", the sort who might even be able to escape from Azkaban. Quirrell, after all, had broken into Gringotts, and that was supposed to be quite as secure as Hogwarts and Azkaban.

Ron seemed to be grieving already, judging by the tightness of his expression, the pain, as if already mourning. Harry considered asking why no one had informed _him_ that he was mortally wounded and about to die.

"Dumbledore's there, though," Harry said. "Even Riddle _himself_ didn't try to kill Ginny, last year, until Dumbledore was sent away from Hogwarts."

While he'd somehow managed to talk Ron into calling Voldemort "Riddle" instead of "You-Know-Who", at least in the sort of company who knew the name, Hermione had taken to flinching at the mention of "Riddle" instead.

He'd already had all the internal debate he felt necessary to decide whether or not it made sense to stick with calling the man "You-Know-Who". But, since he knew Riddle's _actual_ name now, why not use it? Dumbledore could no longer make complaints about slander, or whatever his objection at the end of first year had been.

It was just Hermione who was complicating things. She resolved to complicate things even further, evidently, because even as Harry had been explaining, she'd started fiddling with the straps holding her cat carrier basket closed. Scabbers squeaked in fright in his cage, Ron shot Hermione a decidedly reproachful glare, and Harry sighed. Time to mediate, then.

"Surely, you don't intend to let Crookshanks out on the train?" Ron demanded, as the unnaturally large cat crawled out of the basket, stalking over to Scabbers's cage, set in the corner. Hermione was convinced that Crookshanks was a kitty genius, but he nevertheless seemed a bit stymied by the locking mechanism on the cage.

"What of Scabbers?" Ron continued, with quiet intensity, but with a warning edge to his voice that assured Harry that he was about to grow twenty times louder. Usually, he _tried_ to keep his voice down, owing to Harry's sensitivity, but….

"It would seem that the cage serves its intended purpose of protecting Scabbers," Harry said, with false levity.

Ron rounded on Harry. "You can't believe that it is fair for Crookshanks to roam free whilst Scabbers must remain in his cage for his own protection."

Harry sighed. He _really_ didn't want to get drawn into their quarrel. "'Fair'? Probably not. But this way, he is safer. I know that he usually lies around and sleeps anyway. At least this way he doesn't have to worry about anyone stepping on him…and there's no danger of his running away, like Trevor, Neville's toad. He doesn't even seem that upset, do you think?"

He cocked his head, studying Scabbers. His health was not at all improved for the tonic, but perhaps, as Ron suggested, that was the stress of Crookshanks's presence, added on to whatever had first caused his…malady.

"But we—" Ron said, a bit louder, and Harry cut him off, with a finger to his lips. He jerked his head in maybe-Lupin's direction, just as the man gave a mighty snore.

They turned as one to glance at him, Ron looking slightly chagrined.

"Hmm…doesn't look too well, either, does he?" Harry mused, staring at the man as if he could _see_ what it was that ailed him. There was something almost familiar about him…as if he'd seen him before… but, then, Wizarding Britain was not that large. Perhaps he'd run into him on the street?

He shook his head. "I think we ought to keep our voices down, as a courtesy to the new professor, if nothing else."

"But the Defence post is supposed to be curst," whispered Hermione in a strangled whisper. "He'll need to keep his wits about him, and he doesn't look as if he could handle any setbacks, does he?"

Ron nodded. "If he is as ill as you would have us believe, then it seems impossible that he should have any less trouble teaching at Hogwarts than here and now."

Harry frowned. "Perhaps he'll feel better, tomorrow. Perhaps it's just a cold? Whatever the wizarding equivalent is…. Perhaps if we just let him recover…all this excitement can't be good for his health…. Of course," he said, realisation and memory returning to him, "he'll almost certainly attempt to kill me at the end of the year. Perhaps I shouldn't reproach you, or urge you to '_stay your hand!'_."

Ron tensed, and Hermione frowned at Harry. "You can't jump to conclusions thus, Harry," she said. "Just because our first two Defence professors had questionable ideas about right and wrong—"

"Because one tried to kill us, and the other worse, did you mean?" Harry interjected. Hermione seemed to know better than to take the bait, or perhaps she just didn't hear, ploughing right on, regardless.

"—But we're only in our third year, and none of the older years have anything bad to say about their own professors. Perhaps he isn't a professor at all, but even if he is, that doesn't make him evil. Also, as Ron says: stop making light of your own death."

The end of her speech was given in the abrupt manner of the afterthought. Perhaps her way of trying to make peace. Harry wouldn't hold his breath. They'd already had a few arguments about Scabbers versus Crookshanks. Harry tried to edge out of them, as much as he could. They were mostly all the same.

Hermione had already scolded him for blowing up his aunt, but somehow hadn't put two and two together to realise that this meant that his Hogsmeade permission form wasn't signed yet, and therefore, he would not be going to Hogsmeade. As the topic drifted in that direction, Ron shot Harry an apologetic look. Harry pretended that it didn't bother him, one way or the other. Perhaps he could go next year? If he asked Professor McGonagall, she might give him another form. But what were the odds that Uncle Vernon would sign that one, either?

"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione said, voice hesitant. He flinched, already miserable enough to see danger _everywhere_, and it wasn't yet early enough even for Malfoy to appear.

Harry gave her a distant, forced smile that he hoped didn't seem too bitter. "Uncle Vernon is, technically speaking, my guardian," Harry said. "There was never a chance that I could go to Hogsmeade."

Perhaps the Twins would know a way. He hated to fall back on such drastic recourse: quite apart from them being prankster-tricksters, and therefore inherently untrustworthy (here he managed to squash a thought before it could be born), he also did not like the thought of giving them any manner of leverage over him. If he sought for the assistance of the Twins, it was as a last resort.

Hermione's eyes widened, and her mouth rounded, a silent exclamation of comprehension.

Ron was picking at the nap of the fabric under his hands. Harry was fairly sure that Ron wasn't even aware that he was doing that. He was quite deliberately not looking at Hermione as her eyes filled with tears. He'd done his part to steer the conversation away from Hogsmeade, but had failed. There was little more that he could do.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!" Hermione cried. "I didn't think—"

People often seemed to forget to think around Harry. He wondered if he should hang a sign around his neck reminding people not to forget their thinking caps. He decided that probably very few people would understand what he meant. It wasn't worth it.

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," he said, looking down at the floor, right fist clenched on his lap. "It's not that big of a deal, anyway."

* * *

Harry decided that he was glad that they'd decided to share the compartment of the new Defence teacher (although he knew he would later regret it when "Lupin" tried to kill him at year's end), when Malfoy showed up, almost right on schedule, and tried to pick a fight. Professor Lupin stirred then, making an odd, snorting sort of noise, and that called Malfoy's attention to the presence of the new professor.

They left soon thereafter, without the usual argument-that-turned-into-a-brawl. This was an odd stroke of luck. Harry wondered what sort of candy they should have bought for the Professor, or what they might still order for him, to thank him for that. It must be the first time that Malfoy had shown up that a fight hadn't ensued.

Of course, when life throws you a bone, you should expect a pile of lemons to follow. They'd managed, for the first time _ever_, to avoid the confrontation with Malfoy, which meant that something far worse had to take his place.

Although, not right away. There were a few more hours (two?) of peaceful, amiable quiet, and then the things in cloaks arrived.

Harry hadn't been in his best state of mind when he'd boarded the train, and his mood had worsened as Hermione had gone on about Hogsmeade's fascinating history. Usually, it was good to have a fellow bookworm to compare notes with (although she was more of a nerd than he), but it also had its drawbacks. She'd clearly brought up the topic expecting him to have opinions to contribute, but he'd not felt the need to torment himself by learning all the details of the special village he wouldn't catch a glimpse of…at least not until he reached age of majority at seventeen, and the permission slip was no longer necessary.

His mood had improved, though, as they'd discussed other things (Hermione was keen on _all_ of her new subjects, and wanted to know Harry's opinions, even though he'd already told her his thoughts when they'd been picking courses last year). This had led to the admission that he'd picked up spare textbooks for two of the other courses he wasn't taking. ("I shouldn't think I'd need ones for _Muggle Studies_, Hermione. The Dursleys are the quintessential magic-hating muggles.")

Ron had kept out of that conversation, probably keeping an eye on Harry to ensure he didn't spontaneously combust, or something, Two or three hours had passed without Harry consciously being aware of it, and he and Ron had had plenty to discuss. They'd also spoken of the warning that Mr. Weasley had given to Harry about Black breaking out of prison to kill him. Hermione sought out his advice about breaking out of Azkaban, while Ron contributed thoughts that were by turns surprisingly intelligent, and utterly unworkable.

As the halfway point approached, and the trolley witch came and went, they tensed as a unit, at the thought of the coming confrontation with Malfoy that was sure to follow. Their avoidance of such a confrontation was a pleasant surprise. Indeed, it put Harry in rather a good mood, which he should have known was just _begging_ the universe to punish him.

Returning to the case in point: the beings that Harry would later learn were called "dementors". These were the selfsame Azkaban guards who had reported Sirius Black's mumbled hypnologia to the Minister. These were the guards Lily Evans had decried only last night.

And Harry was sure that, no matter how widely they were discussed, and no matter how thoroughly written of, no one would ever be able to do justice to the horror they brought with them. Light and warmth fled from them (_fitting for you, is it not?_ asked the part of Harry's mind that he had disavowed, which in their presence could be silenced only by far _worse_…). Before their feet, he was sure, flowers would have wilted, grass brittled and died, water dried up, turning all they touched into a barren, lifeless, familiar wasteland.

In short, they were bad for his mental health, which was never reliable anyway. Still, he hadn't felt he was that…_vulnerable_. Weak. He'd fought and defeated Lockhart, Quirrell, a _basilisk_. He'd faced off against Riddle _twice_, and twice held his own. He'd thought he'd been improving….

But light and hope fled before the dementors, filling the train with a primordial chill, the chill of a world without light. Wasn't there a myth that that should make him think of? But there was no time for that.

He thought that those first few moments (Hours. Days. Years.) of their presence would remain permanently seared into his memory. Some things were transitory, fleeting, temporary, but dementors stretched time out, as only suffering (Pain. _Torture_) could. Theirs the halting gasps of the moribund, at death's door, theirs whose was not a peaceful death, but a lament to crown the other sorrows of their miserable lives. He'd heard such breathing before. He knew it.

They brought with them the fetid reek of decay, and they had the grey, clammy skin of a corpse. But although they bore the trappings of Death, it was not death they brought. Harry had said it to Riddle last year: death was no stranger to him. Not a companion, either, but not a force to be shunned and avoided at all costs. There were other, worse things, that he would prefer death to.

They came to the door of the compartment, huge and towering, wearing the black cloaks that artists favoured for Death, complete with hooded cowl. And for a moment, one in which Harry took pains to study the new arrivals for far better cause than mere curiosity, he analysed them. But then, it was as if they became aware of his existence, and Ron's, and Hermione's.

Their arrival had plunged the train into darkness, but there were windows on the train, letting in muted light from outside (what manner of light, Harry never thought to check). But when their focus turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, even these far-distant lights seemed to go out. In that absolute darkness, the figures approached, and it was, for a moment, utter guesswork to divine their location.

But only for a moment. Then, he quite forgot about them. A voice, at once familiar and strange, was shouting, screaming, begging someone to spare him.

_Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry—_

_Stand aside. you silly girl. Stand aside, now._

He knew that voice, too, but where—? He couldn't think. What was going on? Where was he?

_Not Harry. Please…. Take me, kill me instead. Have mercy._

There. That word again, like a curse….

_Avada Kedavra!_

Green light.

Badness.

A familiar nightmare, retold in vivid detail, but viewed from afar (for now). Where was Mother, to protect him? That had been her voice. He was almost sure… but it hadn't been her as he knew her.

Pain (grief). Loss. Regret.

Were those his Mother's last moments? But he—

It was as if there were a force in his mind, a canker, a worm. It dug deeper into his mind, brought forth older memories.

Pain (physical). Violence. A choice. Had he chosen well? Had there been such a choice?

The world stripped to its bones, and he was being stripped down to the same. Would he like what he found, if he saw his own essence, laid bare? Of course not. That was why he had—

_The only way not to break, is—_

Anything but that. Physical pain he could handle, could hold at bay, could work through. He knew it, had seen evidence of it before, perhaps all his life. A distant, fleeting knowledge.

Pitched combat against a legendary monster. Against Quirrell. But those were in the future—or in the past. He couldn't tell the difference anymore. He just wanted the pain to stop.

He could work through pain. Only the weak yielded to pain. He would work through it. He had to.

_The only way—_

_Don't use the mantra_, something seemed to warn him. A voice he trusted, from only slightly deeper in his own mind than he now was. There was someone else here, too, someone trying to drive out the worm, to keep him safe. He could _almost_ think, and it was only because of her.

They were trying to take her away! They couldn't do that! He wouldn't let them!

What was that? Light? A cessation, salvation, safety. Rescue from pain, or only a brief reprieve?

Light was returning to his mind. Something had driven out the worm. Mother was safe. He was safe.

He was _not_ conscious.

* * *

He awoke several hours(?) later, to someone slapping his face. Hard.

Pain, he could deal with. He tried to drag his tattered mind back around him, but the safety it had once provided was all in pieces. It would take _months_ for him to put himself back together the way he was supposed to be.

Or perhaps it wasn't even possible. Who was he, again?

Someone was calling to him. They were very loud; he wished they would stop. He wanted to rest.

"Harry, come on! Wake up!" Hermione's voice said in the background. Hermione. He knew her….

It all came rushing back to him, and he launched himself back to his feet, from where he lay on the ground. Or, well, he tried. He managed to sit up, at least, and look around the compartment. Ron, of course, was the one who'd slapped him into consciousness, looking rather pale and weary himself.

"That voice…" Harry began. No, that wasn't the place to begin. "Those things…what _were_ they?"

"Dementors," said an unfamiliar voice. It was ragged, and hoarse, and sounded world-weary and feeble, which was a good summary of how Harry felt right now. He could sympathise. He turned to face it, and blinked. A man with greying blond hair, holding out a chunk of chocolate in his direction.

"Eat it," he said, shoving the chunk into Harry's hands. "It will help mitigate the effects somewhat. You had rather an extreme reaction…."

"Right, what happened?" asked Harry, staring at the chocolate. He was immediately suspicious of it. It wasn't wrapt, or anything. The professor could have done anything to it. Perhaps it was poisoned.

Ron, by contrast, took his with something that might be considered politeness by some, and shoved it into his mouth. Harry facepalmed at the lack of caution thus displayed, and watched Ron carefully, even as, with a sigh, he opened his seventh sense anyway, to try and figure out whether or not any magic was present on the chocolate. It seemed quite ordinary, and, unlike Riddle's diary, there was no partial soul lurking out of sight, hiding from him.

He sensed no enchantments about the chocolate, which was somewhat suspicious itself. But he shook his head, and turned to watch Ron for adverse reactions, instead. Ron blinked, as if awakening from a dream, and _smiled_. Harry's suspicion was piqued. He couldn't think of the last time he'd seen Ron grin…had it been in first year? A long time ago. He always seemed so…dour. Grim. Uptight, even. But right now, he looked laid back, relaxed.

A moment's jealousy, that in the space of a few seconds Lupin had managed to take better care of Harry's friends than Harry had, himself, these past two years.

"What happened?" he demanded, again.

"Eat the chocolate. It will help," the Defence professor assured them, and then scurried out of the compartment, saying, "Excuse me, I just have to go speak to the conductor…."

Effectively leaving those who remained to explain the situation to Harry.

"Well—well, those things came into the compartment," Hermione began,"and it was just awful…cold, and dark, and I felt—" She shivered, apparently at a loss for words for once in her life. If Harry had had to choose someone to explain what had happened to him, he would have chosen Hermione. She put in all the details, and was very smart, and observant. Ron's explanation would have been much more disjointed.

"I found myself dwelling on the worst moments in my life… and then you…passed out, and Ron even started looking unsteady on his feet…you know how strong he is…." Harry glanced at Ron, who looked away. "I wanted to know what was wrong with the two of you, but Ron seemed to be hanging on a bit better. He seemed a bit distant, but…well, the longer they stayed, the worse it got. It was like they were draining all the happiness out of the world….

"But Neville and Ginny had come towards our compartment, seeking for shelter, I guess…they didn't quite make it. Ginny was white as hell and shaking, outside, by the time I managed to leave the compartment, and Neville looked about the same as I felt. But Professor Lupin woke up…I guess the dementors were affecting him, too…. I wonder what he's so afraid of? I mean, he would have been alive during You-Know-Who's reign. Do you suppose that's it? I mean, he clearly isn't one of the rich purebloods who follow You-Know-Who—"

"Hermione, focus," Harry said, glancing at the door to the compartment, half-expecting Lupin to reappear at any moment. "Also, breathe."

She gave him a half-hearted glare, and took a deliberate, slow breath in and out. Harry began to regret giving such an order.

"Well, as I was saying, when they opened the compartment door, Lupin told us to be quiet, and not to make so much noise—Neville and Ginny were in a state of panic outside our compartment—and then he turned to the things, and said 'None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go!'. But they wouldn't leave, and meanwhile, you seemed to be convulsing, and _Ron_ was unsteady on his feet, and you know how he is…. Well, Lupin seemed to realise that they weren't going to leave without being forced…he muttered something I couldn't hear under his breath, and a jet of white light erupted from it, and the dementors sort of glided away…warmth returned to the world…I knew everything would be okay, then, even though I wasn't watching Ron the whole time. He might have passed out, or something, and I didn't know."

Harry was still watching Ron out of the corner of his eyes. Ron was still smiling, just a little, but he seemed to have mostly returned to normal. "They were no worse than Wanda Maximoff," he muttered under his breath.

"Than who?" asked Harry. Ron blinked, as if he'd just realised he'd said anything at all, and gave a vigorous shake of his head.

"No one," Ron said, too quickly. Harry sighed, and rolled his eyes. Without a ready source of torment, his self-loathing and despair were returning to their usual levels. "Eat the chocolate, Harry."

Harry stared at the chocolate, and took a tiny bite, trying to identify any traces of muggle poisoning. He knew he wouldn't recognise them, but it was a worthwhile delusion.

"You're terrible at lying, Ron," he told Ron, voice matter-of-fact. Ron blinked, stared, brow furrowed, as if a puzzle had appeared before him, and he had to solve it within five minutes or die. Harry looked away from Ron.

"You know," said Hermione, "if Lupin were going to poison us, he would hardly have done so in such suspicious circumstances, where there were no other ready suspects. He didn't strike me as that stupid."

Harry thought back to first year—how different he'd been back then!—when he'd made his defence of Professor Snape. He could argue with her logic, but right now, the thought was…unsettling. He was still all in pieces, and who knew what he'd be if he ever put himself back together—just see how much he'd changed since coming to Hogwarts!

It was high quality dark chocolate, at least.

If Hermione thought it suspicious that he ceded the argument without a fuss, she wisely made no mention of it.


	56. The Sorting Hat's Counsel

**Chapter Fifty-Six: The Sorting Hat's Counsel**

Harry was still rather vague and out-of-sorts when the train arrived at Hogwarts. He barely had the presence of mind to bid the mysterious black skeletal horses that he now knew to be called _thestrals_ his customary hellos, before stepping into the carriage with Ron and Hermione. Hermione had dismissed this habit as an odd peculiarity of Harry's, possibly even before the ride to Hogwarts last year, but Ron clearly could see the horses, too.

Which was an odd thought, and one for another time, when his thoughts were less disjointed and hazy. He'd wondered why _Hermione_ had been the odd one out, before, but now he knew that thestrals were "omens of death", visible only to "those who have seen death"….

Well, now he knew he should be wondering why it was that _Ron_ could see them. Perhaps a death in the family? He'd have to make subtle enquiries later, with the Twins. and maybe (he shuddered at the mere thought; were it not for the lingering effects of the dementors which even continued to plague her, Hermione would have thought him cold) _Percy_.

But there wasn't much energy to draw up plans, to try to chain his thoughts together (he shied away from thoughts of chains, remembering a cold metal room, and a giant of a man, with none of Hagrid's "warmth").

His thoughts came in fits and starts; under duress, he thought he might be able to string together enough to occupy several minutes of his time, before they dissipated in the manner of smoke. The dementors had scrambled his already shard-of-glass mind. They'd broken apart the pieces. He thought maybe some were missing, even, or had been replaced with pieces from elsewhere.

He hated that he could guess where the "elsewhere" would be.

Hermione and Ron were keeping almost a constant eye on him. They watched him stumble out of the carriage, with nothing that might even be mistaken for poise. His fists barely tried to clench as Malfoy breezed past, full of snide comments about dementors.

Anger tried to flare in response—_how dared he? If he only knew!_—but those thoughts had no more staying power than anything else. A night's rest would do him good, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he must wait for the end of the month, and his mother would be able to help him. He would try to endure until then. But first, he must get through the Sorting.

No one he knew was getting sorted this year, and his greatest thought to protest against missing the Sorting, as McGonagall pulled him and Hermione aside, was that he would miss that year's song. It was difficult to build an exhaustive list of the Sorting Hat's criteria for picking amongst the houses if he missed a song

When he voiced such complaints, Professor McGonagall only huffed, and told him that he had her permission to visit Dumbledore's office on the morrow, if he must, and speak with the Sorting Hat then.

He remembered that there were other matters that he wished to discuss with the Hat, but that thought, too, was fleeting.

Maybe it could help him?

Another fleeting thought across his mostly-empty mind was the question of who was dressing down the first years, and calling out the names from the roll, if not McGonagall.

This thought lasted for even less time than its predecessors before passing away into the fog that was Harry's mind.

It did not occur to him to protest his treatment, and when Madame Pomfrey bustled in, already fretting over his current state, he thought she might have a point, when she called him delicate and fragile. He felt it, down to his bones, still steeped in the toxic dread of a being that might not exist—surely did exist—must not exist.

"What is wrong with me?" he demanded, in something that might be mistaken for impatience, but in truth had more in common with desperation—the grasping hand of the man going under the third time, about to drown. Does he care if his weight pulls you down too? Does he care if his nails are sharp?

Oh, not that word again. "_Care_".

He saw by the dimness of her eyes that his reaction was unusually severe, even before she turned to address McGonagall in low tones that he nevertheless heard. Perhaps he should curse the acute hearing the Dursleys had left him with as a matter of necessity—basic survival skills.

The Dursleys, and maybe something else.

"…never seen such a severe reaction before. I will have to think about it more. Perhaps a Cheering Charm…Dreamless Sleep Potion—"

"Not that—"he managed to interject. He suspected that he would need his dreams to help him sort himself out. And if his state lasted… he would not give up his mother's visits for _anything_.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that revealing that he had been eavesdropping was a bad idea. He glanced at the two women, arguing off to the side, as Hermione stared down at the floor, clearly wondering why she had been summoned, too. They didn't seem to realise that he was listening. They didn't seem to hear him.

He _hated_ being ignored. And his tolerance and patience were stretched to the end of their tethers.

"—bed rest—perhaps he should stay the night at the Hospital Wing for observation. And we had best send for some more chocolate."

Harry sensed that he would come to _loathe_ chocolate before the end of term. After all, if the dementors had appeared on the train…well, if they were the guards of Azkaban, the ones that Dumbledore hadn't wanted to be allowed to guard Hogwarts (nor did Harry blame him; he quite agreed), then he suspected that he would be encountering them often, even if they were not allowed on the grounds _per se_. And that meant…weakness. Vulnerability. Danger, he the threat. How long before he again broke, beyond any hope of salvation?

Not "again". How long before it happened _for the first time_?

"If you have no further questions for me, perhaps you should speak with Hermione, and then we might be able to return to the Great Hall without missing the _entirety_ of the Sorting," he snapped.

He was very rarely ever rude to the professors. But McGonagall, to his surprise, seemed to soften at his tone. Perhaps she sensed that he was more like a wounded animal than a steel trap, all bared teeth and sharp voice as a show of strength, that you were not to be trifled with. He was used to being in a cage. He no longer cared if they gawked. He only wanted….

The thought dropped off, there. He wondered what he'd been thinking about. He was sure the memory was there, nearby. He needed to find some way to recover from whatever the dementors had done to him. But even Madame Pomfrey had no idea—

"And what of Hermione?" he asked, and then faintly recalled that he'd already asked something like enough. He frowned. That would never do.

But no one commented. They seemed to decide to set aside their concerns about him, for the moment, in order to address Hermione. They wanted him to wait outside, and he saw no use in arguing.

He gave a half-hearted effort to avoid an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing, waiting just beyond the door of the abandoned classroom for McGonagall to say whatever she had to say to Hermione. He tried to decide whether or not he thought a stay in the Hospital Wing would help. His preoccupation only jarred loose the memory of Ron's explanation of his death at the hospital at the end of first year. Hospitals—and infirmaries—were empty, soulless places, much too similar to prisons. He was going to have to find a way to get out of spending the night there, he decided.

"I think," he said, his voice small in a way he'd forgot it could be. Hesitant. He was the Harry who had rushed through his explanation at the library. The one who had been terrified to explain that he'd somehow accidentally turned his teacher's wig blue. The one who had regrown his hair overnight. _Harry_ Harry. No confidence to be found here!

He tried again, but didn't try to find any sort of confidence or strength within himself. He suspected that "_Harry_ Harry" was just weak. Too weak to defend himself. Too weak to stand up for himself.

"That is to say—" he shuffled his feet. He tried a third and final time. They did say that "third time's the charm", and this was a school of magic. "I mean, I think that I'd be better off spending the night in Gryffindor Tower. See how I do. If something goes wrong, I could always go to the Hospital Wing, but I need to at least try…. I can't spend the whole year in the Hospital Wing, and after that scare… I need something familiar. Something reassuring. And I need my friends."

He made the mistake of turning to Hermione, then, who was gawping at him. He could tell, just by the narrowing of her eyes, that she thought he was putting on an act. But, he wasn't. _This_ was Harry Potter, with all his defences stripped away. Perhaps it was all he really was: a scared little boy.

_Sorry to disappoint, Hermione._

He turned away from her, a brief flare of irritation enough to cover the hurt, the sting that she thought so little of him. Would Ron be any better? Did he perhaps have no friends at all? No friends…no family…all alone.

He remembered Mother. He had her, if everyone else in the world turned their backs again.

_Again_. But by that he surely was referring to what had happened last year, when everyone had thought him the Heir of Slytherin.

But: Hermione and Ron had not forsaken him then. He had not been utterly alone. And—

_They were quick to label you as evil and a monster, however, were they not?_

Ah. Good. The most unreliable part of his mind was back at the fore, whispering bad advice in his ear. It gave him something to steer far clear of, a path to avoid.

He'd told Ron that he trusted him, when Ron had asked at the end of first year. They'd been through bitter peril and worse together, and Ron had not failed him. He'd just need to trust in him again, now.

McGonagall's gaze softened, as if she were aware of his inner turmoil. Perhaps she knew that he had some, but misunderstood its nature. Harry gave Hermione the hollow, fake smile that she expected, and was perplexed at her wide-eyed, horrified response. Was there no consistency with this girl?

_Show no weakness_, said the part of him that he had disavowed. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the loudest voice. Was that surprising, given how many centuries of experience it held to Harry's mere decade?

In other circumstances, he might have pestered Hermione to tell him why _she_ had been called to speak with McGonagall, when all accounts agreed that, other than he himself, the only other two who might be able to compete for title of "worst affected by the dementors" were Ron and Ginny. There must have been a reason, and it probably had little to do with dementors. It would be good to think of something else than fractured minds and souls, and soul-sucking fiends. But instead, they walked back to the Great Hall in silence.

Harry no longer recalled his reasons for insisting that the classroom in which they spoke be near the Great Hall, but if he had to guess at his reasoning, now, it would be so that they weren't as far away—less travel time—meaning that they would miss less of the ceremony.

And they did. The last few students were being called to the stool by Dumbledore when he and Hermione returned. Harry automatically stumbled over to his accustomed space at the table, not even considering that a new first-year might have taken it. He needed the familiarity of routine. He needed the reassurance of familiar faces, of friends who cared about him. He saw Ron relax when he noticed Harry and Hermione, saw it even across the Hall, but Ron had recovered whatever passed for poise with him, in time to clap Harry on the back as if nothing had ever been wrong.

Ron was a better actor than he thought. Go figure. Right now, it felt as if all of Harry's comfortable illusions were being laid bare, revealed for what they were. He'd have to conquer a hundred of his own personal demons before he could settle into the usual routine of the school year, as he imagined those dementors pulling more skeletons out of his mind's closet to throw at him.

He shivered.

"Harry?" Ron asked, brows furrowed, arms folded, frowning. Harry saw that pose too often. He gave a sigh that expressed just how world-weary he was at the moment, and then an attempt at a bright smile.

"I'm _fine_, Ron," he said.

"I think not," Ron retorted. McGonagall was glaring at them for making noise during the Sorting, but Ron just thought it better than trying to talk over Dumbledore.

Harry couldn't meet his eyes.

_Show no weakness_.

"Well, you can't exactly get rid of all the dementors, now can you?" asked Harry lightly. "I suppose this is how I'll feel this entire year. I'll just have to deal with it."

"You shouldn't have to—" Ron began. Harry scoffed. His life was _brimming_ with things he "shouldn't have to" deal with. That didn't stop more of them from coming.

"I'm fine, Ron," he lied, instead.

This year, he was not going to drag his friends down with him. And if that vow sounded suspiciously familiar, too similar to another vow, not yet made, made years ago, Harry nevertheless managed not to think about it hard enough to realise that fact.

* * *

He felt only marginally improved, however, come morning. He forewent breakfast, having his own priorities. He'd skipped the "most important meal of the day" often enough, he decided, to be used to it. What he _couldn't_ get used to was his mind's current state of fragmentation.

He sought out the headmaster's office, instead, remembering the route twice taken well enough on his own.

He should have known to expect the particular obstacle he met at the other end, but planning ahead was quite difficult for him at the moment. What would Dumbledore's password be? Probably something involving sweets, if the previous two instances were any guess. But he might as well try the password from the end of last year….

"Lemon drop?" he asked the gargoyle guarding the tower stairs. Then he sighed, huffed, and crossed his arms at the lack of response.

"Bertie Bott's Every-Flavoured Beans?" he asked, five minutes later. "_Really_?"

He turned his gaze skyward, as if asking some god for their opinion on the matter, and then caught his own actions and thoughts, subdued.

He shrugged, as if none of it mattered, and set to climbing the spiral stairs.

When he knocked on the door, it opened. By this, he naturally assumed that Dumbledore was in. But he wasn't. Whether he was still in bed, or downstairs having breakfast, could not be known. There was a bit of a feeling of misbehaviour—as if he were doing something wrong, that came of being there when its rightful occupant was out.

He turned to Fawkes, as if for permission.

"I just—McGonagall gave me permission to speak with the Sorting Hat," he said, one eye on the phoenix, the other scanning Dumbledore's desk, and then his bookshelves. "Dumbledore won't mind, will he, Guy?"

Yes, he knew he wasn't usually that bashful. But he remembered Ginny's lecture about people's private and personal areas the previous year. Still…this was an office, not a bedroom. And he _had_ received permission from McGonagall. Surely, that counted.

It still felt wrong, criminal, even, sneaking in—breaking and entering, the muggle term. He spotted the black, battered Hat, and turned to Fawkes, and then back to the Hat.

"I need its help, Guy. I know you have phenomenal healing powers, but I need something that can work with minds," he said, tapping his own temple. Fawkes cocked his head, and trilled, watching Harry with beady eyes, but making no move to stop him. Harry took heart from that.

He picked up the Hat, and sat down in the chair before the headmaster's desk before putting it on, half-remembering his original observations on why this was usually necessary as he did. Of course, he hadn't fallen over last year….

_Back again, Your Grace_? the Hat asked, sounding amused, if an inanimate object could. Harry was once more inclined to protest this particular moniker, the use of any and all epithet and title. He knew he was, technically, "the Boy-Who-Lived", but even _that_ title didn't feel like him, let alone this nonsense about past lives and gods—

_Ah_, said the Hat, sounding a bit put out. _And we seemed to be making such progress, last year—_

_I have quite enough problems without being lectured by an inanimate object, thank you,_ Harry thought, knowing the Hat would hear it, grateful that his thoughts managed to stay attached to one another long enough to finish a sentence. A complete sentence, at that!

_Ah… ah, I see_, the Hat said, quite suddenly on the same page as Harry himself. "_Discretion is the better part of valour", indeed! Perhaps you're right to try to stabilise yourself before tackling that particular thorny bush. Oh, all right. Why have you come here, then…Mr. Potter?_

Harry leant back in the chair, which at least had a back to it, unlike most of Dumbledore's choices in furniture. Beanbag chairs, hmm?

_Originally__, I thought to ask you what you wished to have done with the Sword of Gryffindor (and thank you for telling me what it __**was**__, by the way), but I—_ He paused, frowning, as something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle reached him from the vicinity of the Sorting Hat's consciousness. The Hat was _laughing_ at him? Can you sink any lower than to have inanimate objects laugh at you?

The Hat silenced itself, although traces of amusement remained in its voice as it answered.

_The Sword is yours to bear, for the time being. I chose you as the guardian of Hogwarts, and the Wizarding World has chosen you for its protector. Combine that with matters you are determined not to address, and I think you might be destined to bear it for…longer than any other bearers, I suppose I shall just say._

Harry's curiosity was piqued, despite his lack of coherence. An auspicious sign. Once before, he'd sought for assistance from the Hat in matters of the mind only to find that it was already working on just that. Perhaps, again…?

_Have there been many other bearers?_ he asked, something like hope finally kindling in his chest. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, he was not beyond repair.

_Oh, no, not many at all_, the Hat answered, sounding a bit distracted, which suggested that Harry might be right. _Two others only since Lord Gryffindor. Upon their deaths, the Sword returned to me. I was Gryffindor's trusty fail-safe_. It chuckled at an almost non-existent pun, sulked for a moment when Harry didn't join in, and then continued, _You see, as the Hat who judges the character of those who wear me, and as the sole means of access for the Sword…only the worthy can possess it—at least as long as it is in my grasp. But those I choose almost never fail to keep it from the hands of those unworthy, and those of ill intent find that it is __just__ too __**hot**__ for them to handle. Love is fire, remember? But perhaps you also read that fire was associated with a certain god of—_

Harry did his best to tune the Hat out, again, and the Hat relented, switching topics again.

_Why __**did**__ you come, then? You are clever enough to make your own sheath for the sword, although I see that question in your mind, somewhere…perhaps from last year? Your mind __really__ is quite jumbled, now._

_**That**__ is why_, Harry interjected, before the Hat could wander off topic again. _The dementors—the guards of Azkaban, reduced me to this. Try as I might, I have little knowledge of how to reassemble myself, and what's the use, if I'll be dashed to pieces again the very next time they appear?_

The Hat tutted at him, sounding almost patronising as it did. Harry became aware that his arms were already folded only when he thought to fold them. Then he noticed the hard back of the seat behind him, the plush cushion that dipped down only slightly to bear his weight, and the angle at which his knees were bent, as they almost-unconsciously curled around the legs of the chair, as if he would otherwise tumble off. He unhooked them, scowled, and somehow maintained his awareness of his surroundings for several more minutes, even as the Hat continued to speak.

_You know of one already with the power to drive them off—and he is one of your new teachers. You have his class __Monday__, as a matter of fact. Swallow your pride, and ask his assistance._

_But the dementors will __hardly__ be wandering the halls of the school, sucking the life from all they pass. Dumbledore, quite __sensibly__, has forbidden them to enter the grounds, remember. But they are not quite as obedient to the whims of wizards as the Ministry wishes to think. Hmm…yes. I will say what I said at the end of last year, Your Grace: you must learn Occlumency, and not for those two reasons only._

It occurred to Harry to ask "what two reasons?", but then he realised that he didn't care.

He winced.

_Psychological scars run deeper than any other, no matter what trite little sayings about "sticks and stones" might say. Occlumency comes from the Latin __**obs**__, and __**cluo**__. As you are one of the few students who still sees fit to teach himself Latin, I see that I need __hardly__ tell you what those mean. That "c__losing against"__ is very apt for its purpose—it defends the mind from the influences of others, although it is far from sufficient against the Imperius Curse. But it will suffice for your current purposes—it will give you at least a small measure, a pittance, of defence, and the circumstances are few in which you will need greater._

_Although…given your luck…perhaps I speak too __quickly__. Learn every defence you can get your hands on; you'll need it. Occlumency, the shielding of the mind. The Patronus Charm, that Remus Lupin used to ward off the dementor. Any knowledge you might have of…__**before**__, shall I say. You will need it all. I forgot to whom I was speaking. Never, in all my years—_

_What is the Imperius Curse?_ Harry demanded. There was an odd whirring noise, almost mechanical, produced by the Hat, as if it were a character in a cartoon. He realised that it was doing it deliberately to feign malfunction, and frowned. But it was still reading his mind. The noise caught his attention, and he lost awareness of his body again.

_Ah…you will learn that in good time. Not a good topic of discussion for today, my lord. Ask me later. I'm sure you'll hear mention of it soon enough. It is one of the three Unforgivable Curses, after all…not __terribly__ obscure. I've done what I can for your mind. You will __just__ have to try to hold yourself together until your Mother can do more for you, and __**try**__ to avoid the dementors, hmm? Was there anything else?_

His thoughts were mostly coherent, now, but stretched out, thin as the wire of a net. He knew that they were barely held together, as if woven out of thread. Still, it would have to do for now.

_Just the one, I suppose. Can I hear this year's Sorting song?_

The Hat laughed, but obliged.


	57. Fear

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: Fear**

His first Divination class was absolutely no help in keeping him sane and coherent—not when Professor Trelawney practically introduced the class with a prediction or three of Harry's imminent demise. A Grim in his teacup? But how could you tell? Even if it _were_ some sort of dog, how could you tell whether it were a shepherd or a retriever or a Grim? It wasn't as if tea leaves could (in the ordinary way of things, at least) have shaggy black fur, or glowing red eyes. Reading tea leaves struck Harry as more of a game of word association than anything else, perhaps saying more of the reader than of the subject.

This was not the branch of divination that had caused him to take that subject. He wondered when they would speak of prophecy, the history of foretelling the future, of great prophets of old and their methods. Perhaps he was in the wrong class. Hermione certainly seemed to feel that _she_ was, judging by her furious incessant muttering under her breath. Ron applied himself with a sort of casual apathy. He would spend the next three years trying his best to fulfil the homework assignments correctly, only to shrug and concede that he'd had no success, a sort of honesty that seemed to intrigue Trelawney. Harry, on the other hand, kept her busy with the sort of gruesome nastiness that he knew she would eat up, waiting for something to come about that interested him, and applying himself in those areas, only. It was just enough genuine effort that Trelawney never caught on.

Whenever Hermione chastised either of them, he would point out that she had no room to talk, what with how she'd cut out in their first year of Divination. This remained something of a sore spot for her for some time. She _really_ didn't like not being good at everything she tried her hand at.

If the irrelevance of the subject matter weren't bad enough, Harry had also to contend with Professor Trelawney's melodramatic "panic", as she warned him that the Grim was the "worst omen—of death!" She seemed to think that he didn't already know just what the Grim represented, when in fact his lack of response to her pronouncement had causes twofold: first was the fact that his recent repeated brushes with death had resigned him to the conclusion that he was bound to die once a year, at least until school was finished; second was that he had already come to the conclusion that tea-leaf reading was a matter of word association.

If death and death omens were always at the fore of her mind, she could hardly be faulted. But, neither could she be readily believed without question. Perhaps she was a true seer, perhaps not, but her flair for dramatics suggested that perhaps her familiarity with her subject was all cold and hot reading, smoke and mirrors.

Accordingly, her predictions troubled him little. Far more important was his fractured, slowly unwinding mind. But, the prophecy, if such it could be called, clearly haunted most of the rest of the class. Ron glanced his way more often than usual, as if to check that he hadn't keeled over whilst Ron wasn't looking. Hermione was fuming over Trelawney's behaviour and melodramatics, and the rest of the class was discussing recent events in low whispers. That was why the reunited gryffindor class paid so little heed as Professor McGonagall transformed herself into a cat, and back. Only Harry was watching, with a somewhat wistful fascination. It appeared that Transfiguration had suddenly decided to be a useful class. He resolved to learn how to become an animagus…once Black was caught and his mind reassembled.

* * *

Despite assigning them a violent and aggressive book, Hagrid, as Harry was already painfully aware, knew his stuff. Hippogriffs were surprisingly tame for someone like Hagrid, and quite as impressive as Harry's friend had clearly been aiming for.

That didn't mean Harry envied Ron's opportunity of riding the hippogriff named "Buckbeak" for himself; it merely meant that he was rather more irked than he might have been, had Malfoy's senseless barbs had justice.

Being the soulless bastard that he was, he'd already gotten a few jibes in at Harry at the news that had somehow reached him of Harry's "fainting spell" (i.e. his extremely adverse reaction to the presence of dementors). Combined with the catastrophe he'd managed to turn Hagrid's first lesson into, Harry was, for once, more fed up with Malfoy's nonsense than Ron, and readier to action about it.

"I don't understand why we just don't kill _him_ and have done with it. Put him out of his misery, and everyone else's," he said, so matter-of-fact that Hermione turned to stare at him over their unusually broody lunch hour, as if she weren't sure that she'd heard him quite right. Eventually, she seemed to realise that his statement wasn't merely a rhetorical question, and she said, sounding rather hesitant,

"Because that would be murder, and murder is a crime." She seemed to feel the need to take on a half-patronising, excessively gentle voice of the sort usually used with very young children when explaining basic concepts.

"Nonsense," Harry said, waving an arm dismissively. The Hat had just stitched his mind back together, so he had rather more energy and mental strength than he would later on in the month. "It's not murder if it's Malfoy. Think about it: his father is a Death Eater, as well as most of his extended family. His mother probably isn't only because he was a baby when Riddle kicked it, and she knew that Death Eater responsibilities would get in the way of child-rearing. He's headed exactly the right way to becoming a Death Eater himself, because, let's face it, it's only a matter of time before You-Know-Who finds _some_ way of returning. Maybe this year. They say that 'third time's a charm' even in muggle circles, and he's made an attempt the last two years!"

Ron was studiously avoiding the conversation, so Harry ignored him to watch Hermione bury her head in her hands. "I—You don't know that! Just give him another chance! We're still just kids—"

Harry scoffed. "Riddle was _sixteen_ when he murdered Moaning Myrtle. Unless, because I'm only thirteen, it _wouldn't_ be murder if I killed Malfoy, anyway. In which case, what's stopping me?"

He wasn't even sure whether or not he meant it, but talking about ways to kill Malfoy at least vented _some_ frustration. Not that Hermione seemed to appreciate that fact. There was a thought, somewhere towards the back of his mind, that perhaps he would have murdered Malfoy for real, but for that outlet. There was an almost-sense of that almost-familiar sensation of detachment between plan and act. Between what he _meant_ to do, and what he _did_. That put him further on edge, making him even warier and more paranoid, which in turn made him lash out with greater force at perceived threats.

Malfoy was always near the top of that list—he _might_ not have the power or intellect necessary to become a true threat, but he was a constant thorn in the side, a distraction when Harry could afford no distractions, a fatal nuisance that might grow into a genuine threat if not handled properly.

Murder might not be the proper way to handle things, but talking of it was cathartic. Especially given Malfoy's glee at the thought of Buckbeak's impending doom. Well, less than impending—there would be a trial (whether real, or just for show, was hard to tell of yet, but Harry was already favouring the latter interpretation). Harry wondered how Malfoy could be so utterly indifferent to the idea of the death of such a noble creature, when he knew that he was the cause. It wasn't as if he were raised in some sort of warrior culture, or some society that valued death.

Well, except for the fact that his family was almost exclusively populated with Death Eaters. Perhaps that counted.

Hermione struggled to find a good rebuttal, and Harry, somewhat diminished nonetheless, said, "Someday, you'll see things my way. But in the meantime: sure, let's give Malfoy another chance to be a good person, and see how long it takes for him to blow it."

Owing to Harry's lenity, it took a surprisingly long time. He lasted all the way until next Potions class, where, in the course of bragging about his father's influence, he boasted about how he was pretending to be injured much worse than he was to drive Buckbeak for the gallows. For no better reason than because he hated Hagrid…for rather mystifying reasons. Was it because Hagrid had snatched away any chance of Malfoy currying favour with the famous Potter by accompanying Harry to Diagon Alley? That would require a rather skewed interpretation of events, but Malfoy's mind was nothing if not skewed. No, Malfoy's hatred of Hagrid was something Harry suspected he would never understand. Perhaps it was merely that he was one of Harry's Friends, and Malfoy was out of that inner circle with any clout or influence over the Boy-Who-Lived.

Who knew? All Harry knew was that Malfoy was petty enough to stoop to anything to get in even a weak hit. Pathetic, senseless, and cruel. Malfoy would never be a key player; he didn't have the skill to be anything but a nuisance. but that, he did very well.

Hagrid's fretting that Buckbeak would have to be put down (because, apparently, the Ministry "has it out for interesting creatures") just added even more to dwell on. Harry, quite frankly, had neither the focus nor the energy. He was too busy trying to keep himself together (in pretty much the most literal sense possible), until September Thirtieth came. The end of month had never seemed quite so far away, before.

The Potions class after that disastrous first Care of Magical Creatures threatened to overcome what remained of Harry's usually rigid self-control—for once it was Ron and Hermione holding _him_ back—but he couldn't help it. The general lack of any sense of fair-play shown by Snape made the entire situation a hundred times worse, heating Harry's anger to something of a boiling point. He clenched his fists tightly, and studiously avoided Malfoy's gaze. Still, it was a bit of a blessing in disguise (if you'll excuse the irony): the constant itch of Malfoy's imperious gloating ensured that Harry stayed focused on the task at hand, giving an underlying coherence to his otherwise errant thoughts.

Snape's senseless cruelty was also a mitigating factor in his current struggle. With enemies like these, who needs friends?

And then, cast into stark relief (Stark relief?), their first new Defence Against the Dark Arts class with Professor Lupin. There was an itching familiarity about the man that Harry wished that he could scratch, even if what lay beneath were somehow raw and painful. He knew that name, he thought to himself. Where had he heard that _name_, outside of perhaps a mention in his Mother's cottage in the woods? It ate away at precious attention he should be using on the lesson, but it held his thoughts together in a constant thread.

Were it later in the month, after the Sorting Hat's careful stitches had mostly unraveled, it might not have been enough, but as it was, his difficulty in focusing combined with his fragile mind seemed to produce a sort of ideal environment for enabling Harry to focus and remember things. The continuity of thought acted as a lifeline for him to cling through, as in Potions. He felt rather more like himself—whatever that meant—than usual.

"Today's will be a practical lesson," Professor Lupin said, in a cheerful voice. "You will need only your wands."

Harry knew that Hermione would be bringing her notes, anyway, just in case they were useful somehow. Harry quietly hoped that this lesson was very different from last year's first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, with the pixies wreaking havoc in the classroom, and the class, those that remained, having to teach _themselves_ how to defend themselves, and secure the perimeter.

Several corridors and a poltergeist later (what sort of a spell was _waddiwasi_? Spells were usually Latinish, but that didn't sound like Latin) found them in the staff room. Ron and Harry turned, in tandem, to the cupboard in which they'd hidden only a few months ago, thinking that when all was said and done (quite literally) in the staff room, they could enlist some help from whomever remained.

Which had turned out to be Lockhart, the previous Defence professor. Remembering his treachery served to firm Harry's resolve, to give him a cold reminder to be careful whom he trusted, and what evidences he accepted.

"Not to worry," Lupin (he would have to _earn_ the respect that came with a title like "Professor") said cheerfully, as the class shifted anxiously in response to the wobbling wardrobe on the far end of the room. "There's just a boggart in there."

Cheeriness should never accompany such a statement. In lieu of reading the _Monster Book of Monsters_ assigned by Hagrid, Harry had sought out a few volumes dealing with similar material at Flourish and Blotts. He knew what a boggart was, and wondered what Lupin could possibly be thinking. He hadn't even conducted a survey of what his students' greatest fears _were_—not that everyone would _know_, necessarily.

If you had asked just-turned-ten Harry Potter what his greatest fear was, it might well have been Uncle Vernon. He briefly humoured the thought of Vernon appearing in the classroom, wondering as he did what could possibly be done to make him less frightening, but the fear that Vernon had once provoked in him was now much diminished. There were a hundred ways to make Vernon less threatening, and at least ten to make him downright comic—there was something of the air of a caricature or parody about him, when Harry could look at it through eyes not misled by fear.

He listened with half an ear to the tale of how the boggart had come to be here in the staff room, paying less heed when Lupin asked for information on the boggart, even if it _was_ Hermione to answer—it usually was, anyway, and Harry had done his research. No, he had better thoughts to occupy his mind. Such as figuring out what his greatest fear was, to start preparing for it early. Knowing him, it would be spectacularly dangerous and devastating. Although….

Boggarts were just living beings, weren't they? There had to be a limit to their power. Suppose his greatest fear were one they couldn't imitate?

As if to prevent his proper preparation, Lupin called Harry out of his thoughts, saying, "This means that we have a great advantage over the boggart. Have you spotted it, Harry?"

Harry gave the room a cursory glance over. Limited powers. Not enough to accommodate the small crowd of Gryffindor third-years.

"There are too many of us. It won't know what to transform into. Unless several of us fear the same thing, I suppose—"

Lupin cut him off before he could make everyone else even more terrified than they already were. A pity. Fear exists for a reason, after all. It urges caution, and against the unknown, caution is usually a good thing.

Ron sent him a sharp look, something of a warning to silence mixed with the ever-present concern for Harry's well-being.

Well enough that he did that, if people would just let Harry think, and plan.

He could plan and listen to Lupin at the same time, with half his attention here, and half elsewhere, half a thought given to what apparitions were likely to visit this room in the next hour. An acromantula for Ron, sure, but what of Hermione?

What of Harry himself? What was his greatest fear?

An illusory chill crept over him, as he thought of a cold metal room. A being too tall to be human, with none of Hagrid's warmth. Turned in on himself, he remembered thinking on the train. Stripped bare, to the essence of who he was. Bent backwards like a boomerang, returning with violence to its originator. The one who threw it away.

_That wasn't me_! he silently protested, shivering as he did. But the voice he usually considered his own was drained and haggard from recent experience. The dementors of the train had definitely left their mark, as had all those he had passed on the carriage ride to the castle. Perhaps it was just as well that he wasn't going to Hogsmeade….

The dementors….

He shivered again, more violently, this time, glancing around the room, self-conscious, as if the others had a lens into his mind, although he knew they didn't.

He suddenly remembered the Hat urging him to learn occlumency, and to ask Lupin to teach him—what was it called?—the Patronus Charm.

He needed it, with the effects the dementors had on him. Effects more rapid and devastating even than the torture of Thanos, for they bore the memory of that torture with them, refreshed, and with renewed vibrancy, as if it were happening again for the first time….

All the sorrows and despairs of a thousand lives, compressed into a single moment that stretched on into eternity. A second that was a hundred years.

Not Thanos, then. But how to make them comic, as Lupin's spell required?

He paid rapt attention to Neville's admirable display. (See, Neville? Worthy of Gryffindor after all, aren't you? Are you not?) It provided no guidance for him. Dementors weren't human. Even _Thanos_ would have been easier to make _riddikulus_ than the scabrous things in cloaks. The things that brought out the worst in people, drained them of all goodness, slew hope and sowed despair.

"I want you to take a moment to think of what you fear most, and a way to make it amusing," Lupin said.

_I have been trying to do just that for the past few __**minutes**_, Harry silently protested. _It seems a hopeless task._

A bitter laugh rose up in his throat. But…

_Could_ the boggart mimic the effects of a dementor? Or would it merely be a superficial resemblance? He wished, to his horror, that Boggart-Snape had cast a spell. He would have dearly loved to see whether or not it succeeded.

Could a boggart mimic abilities, as well? He knew there must be limits to its abilities; they weren't _gods_, after all—

He cut that thought short, desperately seeking for any means by which he could render a dementor harmless. The Patronus Charm, the one he didn't know. Occlumency, which he had yet to research. But those were superficial, stopgap protections. Treating the symptoms, as the saying went. How to take the fight to them?

Lupin gave them only a few minutes, as if figuring out how to take the thing that had haunted your nightmares and dogged your days, and make it into something silly and light was something anyone could do with a snap of the fingers.

And yet, only he and Ron started, as if completely unprepared. Ron glanced at him, eyes downcast in silent apology, and Harry could follow his thoughts in that split-second, what Ron guessed and assumed. _I can't protect you from this_, was the silent message. _I have failed you_.

Harry shrugged, and smiled, and waved a hand, as if nothing were wrong.

He'd forgotten Ron didn't fall for that. Ron frowned, but, with great reluctance, returned his attention to the wardrobe, where Seamus Finnigan was dragging his steps, as if to buy himself more time, as a man on his way to the gallows.

_What do I do_? Harry asked himself, but no answer was forthcoming. At this point, he would have been glad for a response even from the part of his mind that he'd disavowed. Some way of making the boggart look ridiculous, assuming it had no power to mimic abilities.

The banshee opened her mouth wide to wail and moan, and then clutched at her throat, eyes wide in realisation that Finnigan had robbed her of her voice.

Well, okay then. You didn't have to make it _amusing_, per se. Just…less threatening. _Maybe_ he could work with that.

How to go about making a dementor less threatening, then?

He sighed, crossing his arms, as he watched his classmates, galvanised by Neville's success, followed by Finnigan's, march forwards, one after the other, to confront their personal demons.

Or, maybe his fear was—

Single-minded focus it was, then, he thought, watching but paying little attention.

If only he knew what the Patronus Charm _did_, perhaps that would help. Whatever it was, it was the key to fighting dementors, and therefore his boggart. Hermione had described the spell as a jet of light. Perhaps dementors were afraid of light? If he could put it on the retreat….

He thought of the clearing ruled by Aragog, how he'd poured magic into the _lumos_ spell to illumine the clearing, the way it had thrown the acromantulai off, long enough to begin his escape.

It would have to do.

"It's getting confused! We're getting there! Ron!"

It took Harry a moment to realise that Ron was being called forwards. Talk about appropriate timing. Ron's greatest fear was bound to be an acromantula. Unless….

Harry fixed an unblinking stare upon the boggart, watching as it reduced into a vaporous cloud, condensing into itself. Preparing to become, Harry was almost sure, an acromantula.

Instead, it hesitated, as Ron clutched the new-bought willow wand so tight his knuckles turned bone white, and waited. His back was to Harry; no one in the class, in fact, could see his expression. And Harry had no memory of ever being in the presence of a _terrified_ Ron.

The boggart extended shadows in vague shapes from a central, spherical nexus, as if trying to become this or that. Harry understood what was happening. The initial pause—it had had trouble getting into Ron's thoughts.

And now it was having trouble manifesting his greatest fear. It was only a living creature, after all. Even the most powerful shapeshifter had his limits. But what did Ron so fear that couldn't be given form?

At length, it resolved itself into an acromantula, as Harry had expected from the start. A flick of the wrist and a roar of "_Riddikulus!_" did away with the legs, turning it into a sort of hairy beach ball, rolling over and over on itself…heading towards Harry.

He thought of the light he'd cast before, and braced himself, but then Lupin was there, standing before the creature, as it condensed itself into a glowing white orb. Lupin tossed it towards the wall (and towards the armoire) with a flick of the wrist holding his wand, and, without glancing at his audience, said, "Forwards, Neville, and finish it off!"

Lupin made a very good first impression, but why had he come between Harry and the boggart? What had his thoughts been? He'd seemed almost in a panicked rush. It couldn't be that he thought they shared a common fear—he'd stood in front of Harry to force the boggart to assume the shape that he, Lupin, found most frightening (_a white ball?_ wondered a small corner of his mind that could concern itself with such things).

Neville strode forward, then, and Professor Snape's illusory visage returned to the classroom. Neville waved his wand with greater assurance than before, cried, "_Riddikulus_!" and laughed at the illusion of Snape in Augusta Longbottom's clothes. Harry watched with little heed as it exploded like a firework, with a small, almost inaudible pop, and Lupin cheered.

"Alright! Very well done! Yes, let's see, five points to everyone who tackled the boggart—ten for Neville, because he did it twice—and five each to Harry and Hermione—"

"But I didn't _do_ anything," Harry protested, unable to keep a certain undercurrent of resentment from his voice.

"You two answered my questions correctly at the start of class."

He seemed not to notice Harry's tone, but Harry suspected (perhaps it was the slight narrowing of Lupin's eyes) that he did. It reminded him of someone, although he couldn't think of whom. Harry let himself dwell upon recent events as they headed off to a celebratory triumphal lunch.


	58. You Remind Me of Someone

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: You Remind Me of Someone**

Lupin seemed to be no readier to forget about recent events than Harry, who kept pondering the matter. The only justification for Lupin's actions that made sense to Harry was that, for whatever reason, he believed that Harry's fear would be too much for other people to handle. If Lupin knew Harry's history—the more in-depth history of his schooling, which probably he did—he would know that Harry had been through rather more harrowing of ordeals than was standard for the average teen. It was true that none of the options Harry had considered likely for his boggart were of the sort that even an entire class would cope well with.

Part of him chafed, nonetheless, at the lost opportunity to test his limits, to know his weaknesses, to improve, to learn. Perhaps it cast something of a shadow over his Defence work. And, perhaps, Lupin noticed.

Lupin kept him after, a week after the events had occurred, detaining him with an offhanded comment, a casual request that he stay after class for a little bit, that Lupin might speak with him. Ron's misgivings were plain, but Hermione reassured him that Lupin was a Hogwarts professor, and besides that, they were witnesses to Harry's last known whereabouts; Lupin wouldn't _dare_ harm Harry.

For some reason, Hermione seemed a bit more irritable, and much more reckless, than she had been last year. Perhaps she'd decided that, if she could be petrified merely walking the Hogwarts halls, she might as well live life to the fullest. But something seemed off about her, nevertheless. Maybe it was just puberty, or some such.

"You have lunch after this class," Lupin said, still with that casual air, as if he were paying no heed to Harry whatever.

"Ron and Hermione will notice if I fail to show up," he said, still sitting at his desk, notes out. "May I ask why you decided to postpone my break?"

He tried to keep his voice equally light, but perhaps a bit of bite showed through, because Lupin winced, or rather, gave something of a jerk, where he was setting papers with care into his briefcase.

"I noticed that you seemed a bit…_distracted_ in lessons. I have it on good authority that you are ordinarily a very good student, and you are clearly talented in magic. I thought your distraction might have something to do with the boggart last week, and I thought I would talk about it now, while the memory is still fresh in your mind."

Harry shrugged, glancing down at his notes as if they were some sort of script that he could follow. Why was Lupin singling him out?

"I think a good teacher cares about his students, and makes the effort to be, if not a friend, at least an impartial figure who earns their respect. I don't like to think that I've been a bad teacher, that I've failed one of my students," Lupin said, putting Harry further on edge by seeming to read his mind. He knew that such a skill, called _legilimency_, was part of wizarding magic, if not exactly common.

Lupin leant against the desk in the front of the room, in a far too casual way. He was trying too hard.

"I only wondered why you didn't let me fight the boggart, as everyone else did," Harry said, the admission difficult to make. He had to follow it with something of a dismissal. "I don't have the best history with past Defence teachers. My trust is not so easily gained, after the last two."

He looked up, finally meeting Lupin's eyes, with a bitter, weary smile. Lupin drew back, just slightly, frowning as if trying to remember something, and by his silence let Harry speak. "I rather prefer not to be patronised, so I hope you didn't pass me by thinking me incapable of handling it." He spread his arms wide, and Lupin stared for a moment, wide-eyed, before he shook his head, and his eyes narrowed again.

"I'm sorry to hear about previous bad experience, but understand that this position is said to be curst. Usually only the foolhardy or those with ulterior motives take this position. And I suppose I, too, have something of an ulterior motive: to see that you all are safe, and capable of protecting yourselves. I mean to do the best I can over this next year."

He sounded distracted, as if he were still trying to remember something, and was not paying full heed to his words.

"Is something the matter, professor, sir?" asked Harry, with a voice that, on its surface, sounded quite pleasant and polite, but Lupin seemed to hear the undertone to it, wariness, but also warning.

Again he shook his head, as if to clear it of some recurring thought.

"It's nothing," he said, back to his light-as-air, breezy voice. "You just reminded me of someone—"

_My dad_? Harry wondered, clinging to the faint memory that Mother might have listed a "Remus Lupin" as an old friend of his dad's. Of course, that presupposed that there were any weight to what she said, which presupposed the truth of her statements, their reality hinting at an external validity to the history described to him in that cpttage in the woods.

This was a chance to test it, again. He was not the sort to dismiss any possibility, however unwelcome, outright. He was gathering evidences, still. If Remus Lupin _was_ a friend of his dad, then perhaps Sirius Black also was. In which case, Sirius Black might well be innocent, and this whole thing a means of prolonging a miscarriage of justice.

"Oh?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his sudden interest. "May I ask whom I reminded you of?"

He cocked his head, analysing Lupin's sincerity, and Lupin froze, just briefly, seeming unnerved and a bit out of sorts for whatever reason. "It's nothing. I'm seeing ghosts. It's no one you'd know. An old friend, from back when I was at school. But back to the topic at hand: why I didn't let you fight the boggart."

Harry had a brief moment of surprise here, himself; he had expected Lupin to deny he had done any such thing, and the admission that Lupin had deliberately intervened spoke well of his character.

Lupin shook his head. "I would have thought that was obvious, Harry. They tell me you're one of the brightest students in your year. I'm sure you've guessed why I thought I had to prevent the confrontation: I assumed that that boggart would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort."

It was Harry's turn to stare, rather taken aback. It was the first time he had ever heard anyone other than Dumbledore call Riddle _Lord Voldemort_. He'd almost forgotten his old tally board, not that it mattered. He stuck to calling the ex-human "You-Know-Who" and "Riddle". But also, it was with something like an actual electric shock to realise that Riddle had never even crossed his mind during the exercise.

"Riddle?" he asked, leaning his head on his hand in an attitude that screamed "boredom!"—his attempt to seem apathetic to this entire meeting. It came to him, then, that this would be an opportune time to ask to be taught the Patronus Charm—if he could just lead into it properly. "I didn't even think of him. Regardless, why would someone whom I have defeated and thwarted every time we crossed paths be my greatest fear?"

"…'Riddle'?" repeated Lupin, with a perplexed frown. "Is that Lord Voldemort?"

"_Tom Marvolo Riddle_. His real name," said Harry, holding out his hands as if the name were a physical gift. "If you neither serve him, nor wish me ill, perhaps you appreciate such knowledge."

Lupin seemed a bit unnerved, again, but he shook his head yet again (Harry was beginning to think that he'd manage to dislodge his _brain_ with all that shaking).

"Well, clearly I was wrong, but I thought it would be bad if Lord Voldemort were to appear in the staff room of Hogwarts. I imagined that people might panic."

There was a hint of humour, of all things, to his tone. Harry continued before he could speak again, which he was clearly about to.

"No, I remembered the dementors," Harry said, voice very soft. He elected not to share his first thoughts of what his boggart might be. That was a very long story, one which he had shared with no one (or was that "no one in the physical world"?) and he didn't trust Lupin quite yet.

Lupin by now had finished stowing away his papers, somehow, despite a constant distraction, and returned, with dogged persistence, to the topic at hand.

"'The dementors'?" repeated Lupin, with a small, but quite sincere, smile. Even Harry was almost touched. "I see. Very smart indeed. That suggests that what you fear most of all is—fear. Impressive."

Harry had no idea how to react to this statement. He was vaguely aware that he was late for lunch, but, aside from a notion that Ron might decide to check up on him, deciding that Lupin must have hurt him, and the attendant admission that Lupin had made no such move thus far, and therefore was thoroughly unworthy of Ron's wrath, he did not regret the loss of a meal. This was a subject needing pursuit.

"I've a particular vulnerability to dementors, it would seem," Harry said, and this time couldn't restrain the bitter laugh that accompanied his statement. "Or at least, I'm the only person I know of to have fainted at their mere presence."

"You are not weak," Lupin said, his words almost a rebuke, they were spoken with such vehemence. "The only reason you fainted was that no one else has experienced the same horrors that you have."

That, Harry thought with a shiver, was putting it mildly. There were a thousand nightmares lurking in his subconscious memories, and many of them, far beyond human ken, had thus no human name to them. His mind flitted from one of them to the next, and, whilst he could repress his shivers, he couldn't keep the blood from draining from his face at the memory.

_Pull yourself together!_ one part of his mind urged. And perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn't, a different part that shouted, _Show no weakness!_

"You're right," Harry said, rather subdued by the recent turn the conversation had taken, despite any attempts at an outward display of strength. "When the dementors came too close—when they seemed to be breathing in something more than air from their surroundings, it brought me back to the time—it made me remember the night my parents died."

He couldn't look at Lupin, but had to know what his reaction would be. Pity? Guilt? Sympathy?

From the corners of his eyes, he saw Lupin start, watched a hand reach out towards Harry, as if to show camaraderie by clapping him on the shoulder, as Ron sometimes did, but no other had. He flinched on reflex, and Lupin withdrew, with a heavy sigh. "Harry," he began, voice laced with pain. But he cut himself off, didn't let himself continue, and Harry refused to press him to say more.

Harry remembered that maybe-Lupin had been, according to his mother, at least, one of his Dad's close friends. And thus, one of his mum's as well. He wanted, or rather, felt he _needed_ to ask. But instead, his gaze dropped to the desk. There was a moment of silence for the dead, as perhaps each of them wandered, lost in his own personal grief, rather than seeking for the quiet solace of shared misery.

Harry affected not to notice Lupin's aborted sentence. Then he pressed on, thinking of the Sorting Hat's advice. He meant to be one of those rare few who heeded its well-intentioned warnings. "But there are ways to defend yourself against them, I know."

Lupin sighed, as he closed up the briefcase, with the papers all settled within.

"Dementors are among the foulest creatures ever to walk the earth," he said, without looking at Harry. "They thrive on decay and despair, draining hope, happiness, and even calm from the very air they breathe, leaving despair and gloom in their wake. Muggles, too, feel their effects, although they cannot see them. Stay too long near a dementor, and everything good about you, every happy memory and thought, the capacity for joy, will be sucked out of you. If it can, a dementor will feed on its victim long enough to reduce him to something like itself—soulless and evil. He'd be left with only the worst memories and thoughts in his life. There is nothing to be ashamed about. Your classmates are too young to have the sort of memories that would make a strong man faint—for the most part."

There was a certain fragility to the accompanying smile, and with it came the feeling of familiarity, stronger than ever. Harry was too distracted (for rather a lot of reasons) to follow up on the obvious question: _had_ there been another, to make Lupin's statement "for the most part" not account for a universal—or was it a way to soften the blow of Harry being the only one to faint, at the possibility that others might do the same, in his shoes?

He didn't even quite know what to think of Lupin's (alarming, but rather dramatic) explanation of the creatures. He could believe everything Lupin had said. These were the sorts of creatures for which, when describing them, what would ordinarily be hyperbole became understatement. They had a certain primordial feel to them. Some part of him wondered if they were the embodiment of evil, its source, a holdover whose power had been forgotten to the Wizarding World's sorrow in this modern day-and-age, where there was now a dichotomy between magic and technology, and old fears were re-evaluated, sometimes quite incorrectly, in the light shed by the torch of Reason.

He should probably give some sort of response. Even a "…wow" would be something, at this point.

"And _these_ are the guards of the famed prison, Azkaban?" he demanded, thinking again of his mother's words about Sirius Black. Human beings weren't infallible—even _gods_ weren't infallible—and there were always the falsely accused. He remembered Hagrid last year. And perhaps Sirius Black was another innocent. How could they justify sentencing any but the very worst of criminals to a place guarded by such things?

Lupin was, understandably, a bit nonplussed. Harry elaborated, filling Lupin in on part of the story of last year, when they had taken Hagrid away—and, he thought, it had certainly seemed they had wanted to take in Dumbledore, too.

Lupin nodded his understanding. "There are flaws in such practices—I will not pretend that our legal system is perfect—but no appeals to the Ministry to remove the dementors has ever yet gained any traction. Perhaps people are sadists, or perhaps they don't think of the innocent, or the petty criminals, who must suffer similar fates to serial killers and terrorists. And it does act as a deterrent. Azkaban may be located on a small island, far from land in the middle of the North Sea, but the real reason no one ever escapes—other than that the spells on the fortress prevent the use of magic—is the dementors. Dementors are said to drain away the magic of a wizard too long exposed, so it would seem that there's little use in stripping away a prisoner's magic after the first few weeks."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, thinking of shackles in another world meant to do just that. The smartest thing about the prison system was the redundant security measures—it would never do to leave a weakness that you were aware existed. But he didn't like thinking of it, of course, regardless.

Lupin was not looking at him. He seemed to be looking out the window, but was instead lost deep in thought. "They don't need those extra protections—not when most of the prisoners are trapped within their own minds, incapable of having a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks…."

Harry cocked his head, and considered the new information. For whatever reason, information on dementors was hard to come by. He imagined a younger Lupin either had much experience with the monsters. or he'd spent quite a bit of time scouring bookstores for more information.

His mind drifted to Sirius Black. It would keep returning there—the truth of his past was Harry's newest unscratched itch. No matter how badly scratching it turns out, an unscratched itch is always difficult to resist.

Lupin closed the clasps of his briefcase, one after the other. The bright light of the noonday sun illumined a youthful face framed by blond hair swiftly turning grey, the direct impact deepening the bags under his eyes as it struck all the angles of his face. He made a striking profile, and Harry could almost swear he'd seen this scene before—déjà vu, as Harry remembered it was called. It was a highly disorienting feeling when he could afford no disorientation. He lost track of his own thoughts, for a moment.

Then he remembered to say, "But Black escaped them, didn't he?" and Lupin, with a sigh and a slower shake of the head, came back to the moment, and his briefcase.

"Yes. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but it seems that Black found a way to resist them, without magic—or with whatever limited magic he had left after exposure had taken its toll on him. Not many wizards would be up to such. Pity he was a Death Eater."

"But you—you made them back off, on the train. Hermione said you muttered a spell, and a jet of white light—"

"There are…certain defences you can use," Lupin conceded, turning back to face Harry at last. "If you have a wand, and have put the effort into training yourself with the spell. But it is far too advanced for most wizards—it took me _years_—"

"Teach me!" Harry said, leaning forwards with sudden rapt focus. He stared at Lupin, and if he blinked at all, neither of them recognised it. He hesitated, and realised that being rude would not serve him. "_Please_," he tacked on, as an afterthought. He let his gaze fall. There was a long pause, even after that.

"Harry," Lupin began, in that special tone reserved for bad news and disappointment. "I don't meant of get your hopes up—it is quite a difficult spell, and has the potential to be quite dangerous—"

"_Incendio_ was on the curriculum last year," Harry said, with a shrug. "Don't give me that nonsense about it being too difficult for me. I'm one of the best students in my year, right?"

He thought he might have gone too far with this—he was rather horrified at his own rudeness, and wished he could take his words back, but alas, it isn't in the nature of words to return once spoken.

Lupin paused, seeming thrown, but not inclined to punish Harry for his flagrant disrespect. He sat back down behind his desk, head turned towards the window.

"I don't think you quite understand," he said. "As your professor, I am responsible for your safety. The only way to practice would be to expose you to a dementor—"

"—or a boggart—" Harry couldn't help interjecting, fascinated by the odd atmosphere, a shift in ambience, as if he and Lupin were two friends hanging out and comparing notes on something of no great consequence. Perhaps Lupin fell into the role, remembering Harry's dad, James. Or perhaps they'd never met.

Lupin affected not to hear him, and for once, Harry didn't mind. Lupin had a way of pretending not to listen, whilst showing he _was_ listening, that gratified Harry whilst not giving him more than his due. If Lupin weren't the Defence teacher, Harry would probably have liked Lupin—both as a professor, and as a person. Perhaps he should give him a chance.

"—and your reaction to dementors suggests that that might be devastating for your well-being. I can't in good conscience—"

Harry shrugged, and Lupin stilled in his seat, glancing sidelong in Harry's direction. "The Sorting Hat itself suggested that I ask you to teach me how to use the Patronus Charm. 'With your luck, you'll need all the training you can get', it told me.

"And it's absolutely right. Every year there's some covert danger at Hogwarts, and every year, I come up against it on my own. I'd at least like to have some sort of defence against the threat I _know_ exists, even if I'll inevitably be less prepared for the surprise villain at end of spring term." He paused, just a moment, for effect. "Unless, of course, you're yet another of those Defence teachers who is secretly out to kill me. In which case, I suppose it makes sense that you don't want me to learn how to defend myself."

Lupin winced, and Harry pretended to be unperturbed. Yes, he was turning Lupin's earlier words back on him. Whatever it took. His explanation was completely accurate.

Another protracted pause.

"Well—I suppose we could give it a try," Lupin said, as if not even paying attention to his own words. His brow was furrowed as if he were trying his hardest to remember something, again, but he glanced up with his heavily baggy eyes in Harry's direction. Harry's conscience twinged.

Victory was more important. No one could afford for him to go to pieces—not if there were even a grain of truth in Ron's depiction of events at the end of first year. He could not risk that happening again.

Lupin ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious mannerism, and reached for the handle of his briefcase, again.

"Very well. We'll give it a shot." The congenial air of the room vanished, as if penetrated and broken up by the feeble sunlight still breaking through the window. The Autumnal Equinox was still a week away, but Britain was growing progressively more convinced that it was already winter. Go figure.

"I suppose I have some time next week. I'll see about finding a boggart for you."

There seemed to be no hard feelings despite Harry's earlier words, which puzzled him, rather. Still…one down, one to go. He hoped that books on occlumency weren't in the Restricted Section.

* * *

There wasn't much time to give to wondering where Lupin had managed to procure _another_ boggart. If he said that Filch had helped him look for them, Harry believed him. Perhaps there was some sort of spell to help with finding something like that—the sort of monster that no one would _want_ to find, in the ordinary way of things. The story of how the boggart had come to be here, in this classroom, was far less important than the purpose for which it had brought. Just as long as Lupin wasn't some sort of illegal creature trafficker. And even if he were, Harry would overlook it, as long as Lupin pulled through on _this_.

"_Exspecto patronum_," Harry muttered to himself for the fifth time, gaze seeming fixed on the floor, when in fact he was looking at nothing at all, too busy engraining the spell into his memory. "_Exspecto patronum_. _Exspecto patronum_. _Exspecto patronum_." He paid special attention to the length of syllables and the pronunciation, remembering Hermione's advice to Ron in first year. Then, he worked on synchronising the wand movements to the words. Part of him wondered if he were going over it so thoroughly to avoid confronting the boggart at all.

The air in the classroom was warm—it was hot out, today, one of the last feeble kicks of the dying Dog Days of summer. The lack of freezing cold meant that there were no _true_ dementors nearby. Which meant that Lupin was trustworthy enough, or smart enough, not to exploit a known weakness.

_I must be mad, to __**willingly** expose__ such weakness_, Harry thought, the old refrain ringing in his mind. He silenced the voice of caution by filling his mind with the spell. _Exspecto patronum_, _exspecto patronum_, _exspecto patronum_.

"Very good," Lupin said, from the side of the room. He seemed to understand Harry's delay; after the first wisp of light had escaped Harry's wand, Lupin had stopped commenting, even as the wisps grew progressively solider, beginning to take shape with each try.

A vague silvery form touched down on the floor, and as Harry raised his wand to try casting again, Lupin said, "Wait, look!"

Harry gave him a half-hearted glare that he knew would go unnoticed, and followed Lupin's pointing finger to the vague animalistic white light standing protectively before him. It dissipated even as Harry's eyes landed on it, as if its sole function had been to catch Harry's attention.

"That's quite enough practice, I think, Harry. You've done very well thus far, and—"

"I need to try it on a dementor," Harry said, voice quite firm and brooking no argument. Perhaps Lupin had been about to suggest that they quit for the day; perhaps he was about to suggest just what Harry had. It couldn't be known, now Harry had cut him off. Lupin hesitated, turning to the rattling trunk, and then back to Harry.

"Now, I don't want you to be disappointed if nothing happens," Lupin began, seeming a bit at a loss, wrong-footed. Students were probably not supposed to take charge of their own learning in quite such a manner. "It's quite draining to try to use the spell against a _real_ dementor—but even a boggart would be quite taxing. We may need to stop this lesson before—"

"_Please_, sir," Harry said. Lupin sighed, and turned to the trunk, a non-verbal word of opening at the front of his mind, ready to be cast.

Harry waited with bated breath, staring at the trunk, which suddenly sprang open, and then a dementor floated in the air over the trunk. It began to glide towards him, and as it did, it _breathed_.

"_Exspecto patronum_!" Harry cried, gritting his teeth as an unnatural chill began to creep through him, starting with his lungs and spreading. Why was it always the cold, he wondered, as if to give a constant reminder of the god who fell?

_And is that you?_

In something like a response, Harry clung more fervently to the memory he had been using, under the assumption that the fault was that he wasn't fixating hard enough on the memory of being accepted to Hogwarts.

But somehow, that usually powerful memory seemed feeble and distant compared to his current situation. _Yes, Hogwarts is a lovely place, but see what it has brought you, in the end._

Harry cast about for another memory, and thought of his mother, that first meeting, before the experience had been tainted by later revelations.

He now realised that his happiest memories were all tied up in his dreams. A tragic, depressing thought. That meant he would need to rely on his dubious dreams to find a memory strong enough to pull him through.

The feeble haze that was his patronus fizzled out, just then, and Harry discovered a partial answer to his earlier question—that, at the very least, a boggart had _some_ ability to mimic the powers of those whose shape it took. He could hear the screaming begin—he'd held them off with that wispy patronus for a minute or so, just barely intercepting the pseudo-dementor before things could reach this stage. He'd been hasty and less skilful than usual, knowing that he needed to head off the assault, because if it reached the point where he could start hearing the screams….

Yes, one experience with proximity to a dementor was probably not enough to jump to such conclusions, but he refused to take the risk. But now, the patronus had failed, and the last words of Lily Evans flooded his mind, tearing away his memory of self, the knowledge that he was safe in Lupin's classroom, and that this wasn't even a _real_ dementor.

That last fact might, indeed, have been the only reason he'd lasted as long as he had.

"Harry," a desperate, urgent voice said, what seemed a moment later. Of course, it was difficult to tell. Had his own mind betrayed him, deciding that cutting out was preferable to reliving that horrible memory of that once-forgotten Hallowe'en night?

He immediately sat up. "I'm fine," he lied. "That first round was just a bit too much—I suppose I wasn't thinking of something happy enough. But I just about had it when the screaming started. Let me try again."

He cursed his voice for shaking despite his best attempts at keeping it level. Lupin looked uncertain, and then shook his head.

"This is very advanced magic—it's not usually taught in school. Many full-grown wizards haven't even managed to produce a mist without a dementor, let alone—"

There was something to his fragmentation—and he knew he'd made it worse, pushing himself through this training, but it would all be worth it, if he succeed. In the meantime, he was continuing to lose pieces of himself—he knew it for what it was, now, with it described by Lupin last week. But while dementors—even boggart-dementors—were more than up to the task of draining away the shards-of-glass that were his mortal soul, if there truly _were_ something older, something… divine, it perhaps made sense that it was beyond a dementor's ability to consume.

And maybe it was his fragmentation, or perhaps it was this shifting of the scales, that drove him to his feet, swaying slightly, exhausted emotionally but in no danger of draining himself to death, and made him turn to Lupin.

"Professor, sir," he said, his voice level and commanding, now. "Let me try again."

A command, not a request. Lupin took a step back, a literal step back, perhaps a literal expression of his metaphorical response. He blinked as if stricken, turned back to the trunk, then back to Harry.

"Harry, are you sure—?"

With every other authority figure, Harry was unfailingly polite, bar the odd occasion when under extreme stress or pressure, he lashed out, as he had last year at McGonagall. But, somehow, Lupin was an exception. He told himself that it was only because he had had enough bad experience with previous Defence professors to last at least one human lifetime.

Perhaps it was trying to accommodate the lifespan of a god, in which case he'd never have a decent Defence professor ever.

He cocked his head, taking in the whole scene. He understood Lupin's reaction, even. He wanted to ask whom he reminded Lupin of this time, but knew that he'd received as much information on that front as he was liable to, for the moment. Most likely, it was his Dad. But who knew? Lupin's answer to the last bout of questions was thoroughly vague.

Almost as if he were hiding something. Internally, Harry shrugged, but he thought it best not to move—there was something stronger than a spell in the air here—a sort of ambiance of camaraderie, as he'd felt last week in Lupin's office. If he moved too much, it might break before he'd had a chance to get what he was after.

"I'm fine," he lied, again, and, with a glance back over his shoulder, brows knitted in evident concern, Lupin returned to face the boggart-dementor's trunk-prison.

Harry hung on tightly to his memory and knowledge of his mother, alive still (after a fashion) in her cottage in the woods, and reached further afield, to the knowledge of a different world. He hadn't had a chance to study occlumency yet—it was being painfully elusive, as Flamel had in first year—but the Sorting Hat had also told him to fall back on the _other_ magic, and he knew that he needed all the tools he could get.

He, Harry Potter, had too few happy memories of his own. Why hadn't he noticed before?

The boggart rose up as a shadow, and then formed itself into the familiar hooded cloak. Here came the feeling of cold—Harry refused to shiver—and he reacted swiftly, waving the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, crying "_Exspecto patronum_!"

He stood his ground, as he heard the rattling breaths that signified the boggart trying to breach his defences. But its powers couldn't bypass the hazy mist that was his patronus. He grit his teeth, and focused on the happy memory.

Sweat poured down his face at the toll this was taking on him—it was almost physically exhausting, now, to try to keep up the white light, even though he wasn't moving.

He could feel his knees trying to buckle as he stood there, unable to understand _why_. All he knew was that he refused to be distracted.

As the light began to die, the pressure weighing down on him (how hadn't he noticed it before?) suddenly lifted, as Lupin threw the boggart-dementor back into its box. He crossed the room in three strides, what could only be described as a _chunk_ of chocolate in his hand.

"Eat it," he said, as Harry stared at it in overt suspicion.

Ron and Hermione knew where he was. And he couldn't deny that the chocolate had helped before. He took a bite, hesitant.

It was high quality dark chocolate, at least. He frowned, certain he'd had that thought before, and turned to Lupin.

"I think that's quite enough for the day," Lupin said, tone quite as firm as Harry's had been, edged with steel. Which, come to think of it, might also be how Harry's had been.

"Next week, then," Harry said, trying to force his lips to draw up in the corners. Who knew smiles were such work?

"Don't you have any stronger happy memories?" Lupin asked, in a much softer voice. Harry couldn't look at him. He fiddled instead with the chocolate, convinced that it wouldn't melt in his hands. Freezing. Frozen. What was the melting point of chocolate, anyway?

"No," he admitted. Loki had happy memories, but they were tainted, and besides, they weren't _Harry's_. Really.

Lupin gave a very heavy sigh, and the air seemed full of tension as he cast about for something appropriate to say.

"Do I need a happy _memory_?" Harry asked. "What exactly is a patronus made of? You said something about positive emotions. Does it need to be _happiness_?"

Because if the emotion had to be happiness, he was doomed. But happiness was only one positive emotion of many. The Sorting Hat had once told him that his guiding force was love. He knew what it was to be loved—in various ways, none of them romantic, yet—had felt the powerful love of his mother in the cottage in the woods. And his mother's love—

Silver fire.

His eyes opened wide, as the blatantly obvious occurred to him for the first time. Two years he'd known this force, and not stopped to think about what connection it might have to the Patronus Charm when he'd first learnt of it. He was a fool.

Instead of the wand, he held out his hand, tracing the familiar motions, and cried, "_Exspecto patronum_!"

Light burst forth from his finger, a brighter white than he'd managed thus far. A haze of fog encompassed it, softening the form, like a blurry picture, but Harry could make out antlers, and a triangular head that turned back to look at him.

Lupin gasped, and sat down very abruptly.

"It can't be…" he muttered. A small corner of Harry's mind questioned this reaction. _What_ couldn't be? Was it so impossible that a mere third year might produce an actual patronus, instead of mere mist? Or was it the form the patronus had taken, perhaps? Or….

Harry stared down at his outstretched hand, and frowned. Ah. There was also that.

He took one step back. Two.

"Well, thank you for the lessons. Same time next week good?" he asked. And then, without waiting for an answer, he ran out the door.

He _really_ didn't look forward to having to explain what he'd just done.


	59. I Know That Name

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: I Know That Name**

Remus Lupin stared after the closed door, wondering if Harry had even heard him call out for him to wait. Next week was far too close to the full moon.

The full moon…. There was something about the juxtaposition of a dementor's ability to dredge up a man's worst memories—which, although he'd tried his best not to show it, had affected Remus, too—combined with that particular patronus. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps that hadn't been Prongs…but it sure brought him to mind, regardless. Remus found himself wandering memory lane, as the saying went.

Try as he might to be impartial, he was finding it difficult to not favour Gryffindor, and particularly Harry—all that remained, as Remus thought it, of the Marauders. He tallied off the four friends on his fingers: two dead, one a traitor, and the last—he himself.

Perhaps it was this sense, the keenly cutting knowledge that he was the last—that drove Remus to humour Harry Potter to a dangerous degree. Perhaps a longing for times past, even though Harry seemed to have little in common with Remus's long-lost sort-of brother, James. There wasn't even that strong of a physical resemblance—growing his hair out had helped to mask the similarity of their facial structures to an extent that only Snape still saw it—and in his demeanour, Harry seemed much more as how Remus remembered Lily.

Except Lily had never had that aura about her, an air of command that usually ran only in pureblood families, although James and Peter had lacked it, and Remus could think of one other who also possessed it.

Remus sighed, and put his head in his hands, the dissipating energy of the patronus seeming to take away that happy memory of family and camaraderie with it. He began to feel the sharp pangs of grief, again, although James would have teased him until anger and irritation replaced the grief, Peter would have voiced complaints to make Remus's seem trivial by comparison, and even the boy Black had once been would have been quick to drag him out of it. What happened to the loyal dog? What had gone wrong? _Everyone_ should have been a traitor before Sirius turned. Loyal to light and friends, filled with contempt for his family's ideology—or had that been a ruse?

Sirius had once said he thought that knowing how to lie was one of the most important skills a boy could possess. Had he been faking it, planning a betrayal even then?

No. Remus refused to believe that. Somewhere along the way, they must have—James, and Peter, and Remus must have—failed him. So badly that even a devoted follower of what was pure and good went to the bad.

Such were the thoughts that sometimes kept Remus up at night. What sort of friend was he, if he hadn't realised how badly Sirius (no, Black) must have been hurting, to turn his back on his family in all but blood?

_Then, I suppose I deserve this grief_, Remus thought, realising that he was staring at the place where maybe-Prongs had stood.

There was a sort of powerful, wistful longing hanging in the air. Remus was almost sure it came from that last patronus of Harry's. The one he'd cast using wandless magic. Remus knew he'd have to speak with Harry about it, but the boy clearly seemed to believe that wandless magic was a _mistake_, something that Remus would have to fix. He didn't seem to recognise it for what it was: a rare talent.

_Brilliant as his father, then_, Remus thought, remembering that James and Black had been the brightest students in their time at Hogwarts—too clever for the curriculum, and Remus had always felt that he was running after them, struggling to catch up. He'd spent much of his time poring over old books, looking up the duo's obscure and sometimes outlandish theories, researching this or that that they'd casually mentioned. Without trying, only Black and James whizzed through their classes, minds focused on what they deemed more important: pranks. Remus and Peter had mostly only been along for the ride.

And what a ride it had been. He still remembered the pure shock when Sirius and James had, almost matter-of-factly, informed him that they'd succeeded in becoming _animagi_—a phenomenally difficult feat, particularly as they were both still underage. And phenomenally dangerous.

But only a corner of his mind had even considered scolding them for their dangerous undertaking. He had recognised the gesture for what it was, even then. And ever after, he'd turned a blind eye too often to their antics, even when it put people in danger, especially when it was Snape—and now Snape was helping _him_, and part of him felt as if Snape were trying to replace Remus's old friends, which was _absurd_, but—

How? Where had it all gone wrong? What should he have done?

He considered asking the empty classroom that, but knew that whatever answers it might hold, it would keep to itself.

* * *

He was in worse shape than he had thought. He acknowledged this fact, leaning against one of Hogwarts's many stone corridors, taking a break on the way to the Headmaster's Office. He hoped that Dumbledore hadn't changed the password again, which meant he probably had. Still, it _was_ a bit cumbersome. Suppose there were an actual emergency?

Realising that leaning against the wall wasn't doing him any good—and that the wasted time might be doing him some _harm_, he forced himself back to his feet, and set off, again, at a swifter pace, as if to make up for the time he'd wasted.

_You made it_, said the part of his mind he had disavowed, in a sort of disinterested drawl, only a few minutes later. _And without forgetting your intent. Does that not suggest to you that perhaps your situation is not as dire as you believe it to be?_

_Shut up_, Harry's main internal voice shot back, thinking that how loud that _other_ voice was, was evidence enough of his dire straits. Besides, no one trusts a liar, right?

"Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans!" he cried, and then threw his hands up in frustration when nothing happened. _Of course_.

"Lemon drops! Licorice Wands! Pumpkin Pasties! Droobles Best Chewing Gum! Acid Pops!"

He sighed. At least that one was short. He glared at the gargoyle, which didn't even dignify him with a look. Which was just as well, as he was here without permission.

He stopped at the top of the spiral stairs, and knocked.

"Come in," said a familiar voice, somewhat distorted through the thick wood. And here he'd been hoping that the door was unlocked, but no one was in. He sighed, and turned the knob, throwing the door open.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking through piles of parchment that were probably something administrative for Hogwarts—although he _was_ also Supreme Mugwump, and a common correspondent of the Minister; who knew? Harry glanced over at Fawkes, trying to keep Dumbledore in his peripheral vision. He felt wary and hunted. It was not a good feeling. He was liable to jump at even small noises, which was embarrassing.

"Ah, Harry Potter," said Dumbledore. Even his _voice_ was smiling. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, particularly during one of your breaks? Not many students choose to spend their free time with this particular old man."

Harry glanced around the room, seeking for the Sorting Hat, and turned to face Dumbledore, as if he'd only just noticed him. His expression was carefully blank.

"I need to borrow the Sorting Hat," he said. "Dementors seem to take a toll on my mental stability, and it's helped before."

He tried to sound as if this didn't bother him in the slightest, but knew that Dumbledore saw right through him. Still, Dumbledore was usually understanding enough—

"And where have you encountered a dementor?" asked Dumbledore swiftly, all his usual twinkling mirth gone. There was a fierce anger to his tone. Harry was a bit taken aback, despite himself. "Have you tried to sneak off the grounds, Harry?"

He did not sound as if he thought this idea had much credence, which was at once insulting and gratifying. Loki would have balked at the idea of being a teacher's pet, but the strange, avuncular connection he and Dumbledore seemed to have had its perks.

"In the school," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, as he made his way over to the Sorting Hat. Fawkes gave a reproachful chirp, and Harry hesitated. "Good to see you're feeling well, Guy," he told the phoenix, who seemed placated by Harry's acknowledgement.

He turned back to Dumbledore, who had stood up, looking twenty feet tall and quite imposing. Harry had to force himself to add, although he was shaking all over from sudden nerves, "It wasn't even a real dementor. Just a boggart. Professor Lupin is teaching me the Patronus Charm. Knowing my luck, I'll need it before the year is out. But it does take its toll like a real dementor…."

Dumbledore diminished, became life-sized again, and gave a heavy exhale. "Yes, it's probably best," he agreed. "Few wizards manage to learn the charm, however—don't be disappointed if it takes a while."

Harry said nothing. He was not about to brag that he'd managed to create a full-fledged patronus not fifteen minutes ago. He shrugged, and continued to the Sorting Hat. He chose to interpret Dumbledore's lack of protest as permission. He needed this. If luck were on his side, for once, his mother might come up with a more permanent solution, but for now this was all he had.

If he were unlucky, which seemed rather more likely, he was broken, in the manner of Humpty Dumpty, beyond mending.

He glanced again at Dumbledore, before picking the Sorting Hat up. Even though the Sorting Hat almost never spoke aloud, this still seemed a very personal experience. He felt particularly exposed and vulnerable with the Hat on his head, and now was not a good time for that. This was why he glanced again at Dumbledore before taking a seat. There was, unfortunately, only one such seat in the room unoccupied, and Harry hadn't researched how to make his own.

_Back again, Your Grace?_ asked the Hat, and Harry started, and then sighed. Talking Hats were impossible to get used to, although he sensed that he must do just that. He frowned.

_How many times must I tell you that __**I am not a god**__?_ Harry demanded. He folded his arms, and then pressed one hand against his forehead, under the brim of the Hat.

_You __**would**__ be able to convince yourself that that is true_, the Hat mused. _Although it is not._

Harry was not in the best mental frame of mind to begin with, and the Sorting Hat wasn't helping in _that_ respect. Doubtless, it had already begun trying to repair his mind, such as it was, but Harry wished it didn't have to prod that particular issue. Did every conversation with the Sorting Hat _have_ to come back to that?

The Sorting Hat made a vague, soothing noise, of the sort Harry would have expected from Madam Pomfrey. _There is only __so__ much that I can do for you_, it informed Harry, sounding regretful. _The dementors attack your __**soul**__ far more than your __**mind**__. Occlumency would help you to fend them off, however; although it is __generally__ a mind magic, it has its place in defending the soul from external influence, as well. I see that you've neglected your search for information on it, to learn the Patronus Charm._

_You were the one to suggest that I do that!_ Harry said. If looks could kill, the Hat would have been very lucky to be an inanimate object.

_I suggested that you pursue all of the means that lay before you_, the Hat corrected him, in an overly gentle voice. At least it was treating Harry like an ordinary, human child, and not dropping in titles or epithets.

_I had some trouble_, Harry said, in his most indifferent mind-voice. Even though the Hat in his head could see right through that. _Do you have any suggestions for books on occlumency?_

The Hat responded with some manner of comment about how, although it was a _mind_-reading Hat, it couldn't read the words on actual parchment. What did Harry want from it?

Well, it might have encountered _someone_ who had researched the subject before coming here—or perhaps there were other higher-year students who, as Harry was doing now, returned to speak with the Hat again. He didn't know.

Harry wondered again what Dumbledore made of his presence, and that thought returned him to awareness of his own body, which had been cut when the Hat had settled on his head. Now, he began to wonder if he weren't running past his break, into his next class. Would Dumbledore give him some sort of note explaining his delay? Would anyone accept such a note?

The Hat was suspiciously silent.

* * *

He hated having to rely on one person for his salvation, but at least if he couldn't save himself—no matter how he try—that one person was his mother. He trusted Ron, Hermione, and his mother absolutely. Everyone else was suspect. Still, even he had trouble figuring out what to make of the scene he walked in on on the Thirtieth. His mother had failed to answer the door because she was sitting on the familiar sofa, sewing together huge swathes of what looked to be tapestry.

He stared, and she glanced up at him, a knowing smile on her face. Behind that, however, her brows were slightly furrowed, a slight downward quirk to her lips, and she seemed unusually tense.

He had tripped over boots that he'd never before noticed himself wearing in these dreams. Or perhaps they were new boots—one that he'd never worn before. If that were the case, then they might be evidence of the effect the dementors had had on him. He was fairly sure that always before, he'd worn his trainers, and Dudley's old cast-offs. He was still wearing those, but he was a bit unnerved by even a slight change in his appearance. This was his subconscious. It was supposed to be stabler and less dynamic than his conscious self.

Mother may or may not have noticed the new boots. She seemed rather preoccupied with the dagger-sized needle in her hand, with which she was using thread as thick as yarn to sew together the torn seams of the tapestry. He rather suspected that he knew what she was doing.

"Is it September Thirtieth already?" she asked, with a little laugh. He noticed dark rings under her eyes, as if she'd lost sleep, whether because of the dementors, or owing to the less immediate need to sew the tapestry back together, he couldn't tell. He felt a pang of guilt, at all the extra work he'd given her, taking his Patronus lessons with Lupin. But she seemed genuinely glad to see him (_And what mother would not_?), beckoning him over with the hand holding the needle. With some misgiving, and much remorse, he picked his way across the room.

"I did wonder at your absence when you failed to answer the door," he said, as he approached her. "That seems to be quite the task you have set yourself. Is there something _I_ might do to assist you?"

It was _his_ soul, after all. But she shook her head.

"Come. Sit beside me as you can, and speak to me of what has happened this month past. What warning do you have of coming threats?"

He had to concede that that was the most pressing issue, but wished that there were a time when his life _wasn't_ in danger, and that they could just talk, again, as they once did. Perhaps, when Riddle was defeated. Until then, between the renewed fury of the Dursleys, and the constant danger that seemed to follow him wherever he went, he had too much else that he more desperately needed to speak with her about. Advice on how to survive the Dursleys. Advice on occlumency, perhaps? It was worth asking.

He glanced over to the tapestry to see that it was covered with highly realistic trees. He raised an eyebrow at Mother, who, despite her distraction, understood the unasked question.

"These are trees from just outside the cottage," she said. "The dementors destroyed some parts of your soul—but do not fret, my son. Souls are flexible things. They regenerate, to a degree. As long as you give them enough _time_ to do so."

He swallowed, and looked down at his hands, swallowed as they were by folds of grey cloth.

"I see," he said, and there was a moment of silence. But, as he had observed before, his mother had boundless patience. She could outwait him, he knew. The delay was the need to gather his thoughts, along with the attendant difficulty of doing that, caused by the dementors.

"They consume the soul, and not the mind," he murmured. He was thinking of what the Sorting Hat had said. He glanced at his Mother, who seemed utterly absorbed in her work. But she was listening. She always had. "The greatest threat thus far, regardless of other recent events, would seem to be the inundation of _dementors_, stationed at all the exits of the school grounds. Professor Lupin is teaching me the Patronus Charm. Thus…."

He spread his hand to encompass the kilometres of tapestry blocking the window and pooling on the sofa.

"Professor Lupin?" his mother asked, looking up towards him so quickly that he privately thought it a miracle that she hadn't impaled herself on the giant needle. _Miracles, hmm?_

The part of his mind that his waking self disavowed was always louder in his dreams—but never this loud, before. He sighed, and looked away.

"Remus J. Lupin," he said, running a hand through his bangs. "Do you know that name?"

She returned to her work, nodding. "Do I know that name?" she repeated. "Have you forgot what I told you on the eve of your departure for Hogwarts? Three good friends James had: Sirius Black, naturally; Peter Pettigrew, who betrayed us all; and Remus Lupin, whose unfortunate ailment helped to bind them together, when their bond was strong. Before…."

Harry shuddered, thinking of another shattered bond, the betrayal born of its breaking, and fixed his eyes upon the not-quite-fabric trees. He knew that they were supposed to be out the window, and down the way, mostly by the way he could follow a line of fabric heading back out through the window and out into the woods. He thought he'd wandered that particular path before. It was visible from his Mother's garden. The dementors had penetrated deep, indeed.

"Four loyal friends, bound together by fate and friendship, brothers in all but name and blood. One dead, one forsaken, one broken, one apostate. And I am to remember their names, as well."

She nodded. "It is best you recognise them, if you hear them again. I will say it again: if your path should cross with that of Sirius Black, for my sake, I urge you to hear him out, and heed his tale. But if you should encounter Peter Pettigrew instead…turn him in to the Ministry, if you can, but regardless, be very careful. He is tricky in the worst sense of the word. I fear we all underestimated him—and Sirius and James were the brightest students of our generation. Do not give him opportunity to harm you. Your safety is paramount."

He was still not sure of the reality of any of this—or at least, that was what he told himself in the Waking World. But if his mother _were_ his mother, then what she was saying must be true. He _should_ heed her words. He resolved, despite his misgivings, to keep an eye out for any mention of a "Peter Pettigrew", particularly in conjunction with the other three names.

It was time to change the subject. "Tell me, Mother: What do you know of occlumency? The Sorting Hat suggested I learn both that and the Patronus Charm, but research in the library proves…frustrating."

And perhaps he wasn't the only one who recalled one of those earliest memories, when she'd first begun to teach him magic, finding him in the Royal Library, and—

She wouldn't look at him. "It is a very difficult discipline," she said, her voice slow and ponderous. "Learning it requires a numbing of emotion, and the clearing of the mind. Eventually, with enough practice and skill, the skilled practitioner is able to keep his mental walls intact even under pressure, in times of great emotion. Not everyone has the capacity to reach such a level of skill, but anyone may start to learn."

"…How?" he asked. This was about as much information as he'd found in his research in the library. It was not much to go on.

"You are more vulnerable than most to legilimency—and anything that assaults the mind—owing to your past experiences." He did not contest that statement. "It is best that you begin such training as soon as possible. I wish that you had mentioned it to me earlier, my son. Dementors will never be welcome visitors at my place of refuge."

Harry sighed, and leant back into the sofa. His mother _would_ lead into topics with a reprimand, and too much background information. He shouldn't have expected anything else.

"Will you teach me?" he asked, and she sighed.

"Occlumency was not a subject that drew my attention whilst I was a student at Hogwarts. I too little understand its finer workings. However, I know that Professor Snape, and Headmaster Dumbledore, are both master legilimens. However—"

There was a protracted, ominous pause. "You must understand that any teacher who would have the skill in legilimency to help you learn occlumency would become privy to your thoughts and memories. You might consider that too great of a risk."

He would. He frowned, trying to find a third path. "What, then?" he asked, wondering if this were a hopeless task. His mother lay down the tapestry to tap at her chin, thoughtfully.

"The Sorting Hat," she said. "Legilimency is a function of its magic—it is the means by which it sorts students. Between the need to continue to repair your mind, and the threat of encountering more dementors, you should have cause to ask Dumbledore to ask the Hat to instruct you on that, at least. But you ought to start on your own. Clear your mind, and imagine a barrier around your mind—thick, impenetrable, and all-encompassing. Practice maintaining that wall, and try to make it ever stronger and enduring. That is what I would do if you were to use the magic of home to attempt to mimic occlumency."

That hadn't occurred to him. Nor had he done much practice of the other magic—despite how much simpler it would have been than to try to teach himself wizarding means of defending his mind. Why had it not occurred to him? Was it merely his distraction and fragmentation, or was there something else, too—the sense that if he used the other magic instead of wizarding magic when he knew that he was replacing a very specific skill, it would make all that he was trying to deny seem more valid?

_Self-sabotage_, he chided himself. He needed all the help he could get.

"And where is Thor, Mother?" he asked, with sudden urgency that had her looking up again. "Not even for _my_ sake. Is he near enough for the dementors to affect him? What do you suppose he would be forced to recall?"

Surely not the night he had almost died, but perhaps…perhaps…if Harry were Loki and Lily Evans, Frigga…they would have died, and _perhaps_….

He shivered at the image of Thor trapped within those memories that had come to him in the last months before the dreams had stopped—the Chitauri Invasion, the Rainbow Bridge, the aborted coronation…so much loss, in so little time. And then, other, unknown, hidden memories—the certainty that if there were any true connection between him and Loki, or his mother the witch, and his mother the queen, it entailed their deaths. All in what, to an Asgardian, would seem almost the blink of an eye.

And Thor would not have the Patronus Charm to defend him. He would not have occlumency to shield his mind. That which had brought Harry to his knees would have crippled even Thor. But he didn't know why he even asked. She never gave a true answer.

Until now.

"He is near," she said, with great assurance. She studied the tapestry in her hands. "More than that, I do not know. Were I to walk this mortal plane, if our paths would cross, I am certain that I would know him. But my confinement in this cottage mutes my connection to the outside world. It is why I rely upon you for information. All I know is that he is near. He may, indeed, be somewhere in this very school—for if you and I, why not he? And I am sure that—if separated you are—it shall not last much longer. You will not have noticed it—a tension, anticipation, even the stars forecast a great change in the future. War is almost upon us, and I find it difficult to believe that your brother would be far behind."

Harry huffed. Maybe instead of taking Divination, he should have talked to his mother about foretelling the future instead. He'd forgotten she sometimes seemed to have knowledge of coming events.

"Then…I shall perforce save him again from charging into battle unprepared?" he asked, throwing his hands in the air. "Is that how it must always be, Mother?"

It wasn't fair to ask her to predict such specifics, he knew. He didn't begrudge her her inevitable renewed silence.


	60. The Black Mystery

**Chapter Sixty: The Black Mystery**

It seemed to want to be a very wet October, even by Hogwarts standards. That didn't stop Wood from dragging them out to practice nearly every day of the week. But Harry could hardly blame him; Wood was absolutely right: this was Harry's third year on the team, and, by the contortions more than the vicissitudes of fate, contrivance had stolen the Quidditch Cup from them. First year Harry had been laid out in the Hospital Wing—but the alternative was a resurrected Lord Voldemort; second year, the cup had been canceled altogether following Hermione's petrification. Wood was understandably a bit frantic—he was taking out his pre-exam jitters through exercise, on the one hand, and on the other, he knew, and took pains to underscore, lest the rest of them forget it, that this year was his very last chance at the thing.

Harry silently crossed his fingers, glancing upwards with raised eyebrows, wondering if anyone were watching, and then, with a sigh, settled for just hoping for the best. There was something ultimately unsatisfying with potential connections to godhead—especially if they carried with them suggestions of unrealised access to divine power. To whom did you appeal for assistance, if you were all or part god?

The good thing was that Wood had listened to Harry's entreaties, that Ron be allowed to try out, and then had listened again when Ginny had (having followed them) demanded her own fair shot. He'd called her reserve seeker, and put Ron into the reserve chaser line, which meant that they had a failsafe or two—and to Harry's mind, there could never be enough of those. Unless it was in the opposing force's preparations—then it was overkill.

With September past, talk of the first Hogsmeade visit of the year began to filter through the school—the date was set for Hallowe'en, naturally. That day couldn't pass without making Harry miserable, _and_ putting him in danger. He wondered what catastrophe awaited him this year. And how Lupin would be involved. Quirrell had been the threat in first year, Lockhart a bystander in second—what remaining role was there to play? He supposed he'd see, come Hallowe'en.

Truth be told, he was grateful for the Quidditch practices to wear him down somewhat physically, to match his emotional and mental strain. He was slowly pulling himself back together, but the time he spent mimicking and researching occlumency didn't help matters. Madam Pince refused to believe his intentions in seeking out books on mind magic, so he was on his own, scouring the shelves as best he could. Good thing he had some training to fall back on.

Why couldn't wizards use the card catalogue?

The first game of the season was in November, but Wood was frantic in his pursuit of success, and drilled them mercilessly, getting them up early so that they could mimic the conditions under which they would play as best he could. Harry was low on sleep, anyway, and perhaps a bit shorter with Ron and especially Hermione, who had no need to suffer the practices, than he should have been.

He might now be draining himself to death, but what choice did he have? He _needed_ some sort of defence against the dementors, and were it a choice between losing his life, and losing his soul….

The only person who looked as harried and frazzled as Harry was Hermione—and she was taking literally every course Hogwarts had on offer, including, as Harry and Ron pointed out more than once, _Muggle Studies_. Harry would stick to useful subjects, thank you.

He told himself that his fatigue had nothing to do with the impending threat and disappointment lurking in the near future, but even he had a hard time convincing himself of that.

Dean Thomas, ever a good friend, despite the scant social interaction Harry'd had with him, offered to forge Uncle Vernon's signature, but Harry admitted, with some regret, that he'd left his form at home—and who knew what manner of spells were on the things to detect just such tricks as forgeries and promises under duress? He didn't want Dean to get into trouble—not when Dean was one of the few people in the school who had never forsaken him. Dean gave a nod of understanding to Harry's explanation, and tried for a reassuring smile.

"Maybe next time, then," he said, turning back to the sketch he was working on instead of homework.

Percy's attempts to reassure him that Hogsmeade was nothing special had the opposite effect, because he was Percy, who understood Harry the least of all the members of the Weasley clan, was the least fond of him of the Weasleys-at-Hogwarts, and who, furthermore, was just bad with people in general. He could do bossy; he could not do reassuring. Even Hermione's half-hearted attempts to comfort Lavender Brown after she received news that her rabbit had died back home met with more success—and Lavender was glaring at Hermione by the end of that confrontation.

He conceded that Hermione was giving her best shot at this whole "social interaction" thing, and that hanging out with Ron and Harry probably hadn't helped to strengthen this ability, for opposite reasons. He was just glad it hadn't turned into yet another argument between Hermione and Ron about whether or not Crookshanks was trying to figure out how to unlock Scabbers's cage so that he could catch and eat him. Somehow, he suspected that the arguments would be frequenter and more heated, were not Scabbers safe in his cage.

The real problem was that Scabbers did not seem to be recovering, for which Ron seemed inclined to blame himself, and then to blame Crookshanks. Harry did his best to stay out of their arguments. He had the sense that Hermione's resolve was waning, and that her main reason for continuing to argue was that she didn't have any idea what else to do. Nor did Harry. Unfortunately, other, more pressing matters, were occupying his mind.

He seemed to be making decent progress on occlumency, at least, perhaps because he was mostly just using the _other_ magic, which came more easily to him anyway, in a different way. Or perhaps it was that he already had most of the rigid self-control that formed the foundation of the skill. Half to spite Madam Pince, for refusing to help him, and half because he felt it would genuinely come in useful, he studied legilimency, as well. If occlumency and legilimency were opposites, that learning about the other would also teach him about the one.

The second week of October, Lupin conceded to being ready to give him another lesson on forming a Patronus. This, too, seemed to be progressing. At the end of his first lesson, he'd managed to form a patronus, when there was no external threat to drain and to distract him. Now, Lupin set him to fighting a boggart-dementor from the get-go, without even a review. Harry was, despite everything, up to the challenge.

Lupin must have ordered an entire candy shop's worth of chocolate to prepare for their lessons, well aware that Harry would need it. But Harry was improving—he knew he was. The patronus that formed under duress grew progressively brighter and more distinct, approaching the form he'd seen at the end of his last session in appearance. He remembered Lupin's reaction, and questioned whether the man might just be trying to avoid seeing that animal again. But if so, why?

Lupin seemed to be a very private person. There was no readily apparent way of asking.

Not until Hallowe'en came, at least, and the school drained of students of third year and up (although some remained, particularly those in their fifth and seventh years, as those contained end of year cumulatives). Filch checked each student as they passed, standing with a clipboard, comparing those departing with his list of students with permission. Ron and Hermione united in their efforts to cheer Harry up, by bringing him mementos from Hogsmeade that they thought he might like. He wondered if that would make him feel better, but acknowledged the purity of their intentions.

He was on his way to the library, thinking he might get some studying in, when he heard Lupin call out to him as he passed the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's office. It was the same one that Lockhart had occupied last year, but far less garishly ornamented now. Really, especially in comparison to Lockhart, Lupin was fully deserving of the title of professor. The only reason Harry was still remiss was a lingering suspicion about Lupin's motives, being here, with the current climate what it was. But if Mother were right….

"Is there something you needed assistance with, Professor?" he asked, standing in the doorway, head tilted to the side.

"Ah, no," Professor Lupin said, with a smile. "I was just feeling a bit lonely, and in need of company, and you happened to pass by. If you're busy, of course, feel free to leave. But if not…I was just thinking of making a pot of tea."

Harry stepped across the threshold with some caution, remembering the last time he'd come this way. He glanced around the walls, but hadn't really expected to see framed photographs of the new Defence professor covering them. That tank on the table, however, was definitely new, and infinitely more interesting than anything in Lockhart's headquarters.

"Ah, you noticed the grindylow," said Lupin, pouring a cup of tea. "They shouldn't be too much of a problem, after the kappa we covered. The trick is to break their grip. See those long fingers—strong, but very brittle. Tea, Harry?"

"Yes, please," Harry said, paying little heed to his words, as he slid into his seat, half-expecting for something to come to life and attack him.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Professor Lupin asked, brow furrowed in evident concern. "I noticed that Ron and Hermione aren't around—"

"They are in Hogsmeade. However, my uncle did not see fit to sign my permission form. Perhaps you heard the story of how I blew up my Aunt Marge. He was none too pleased."

"I did hear a rumour," said Lupin, but his gaze was distant, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. There was a small, almost invisible, smile on his face. "Well, Hogsmeade grows old. It loses its novelty after a while. Not going this year just means that you appreciate it more next year. And it is for the best, after all, with Black on the loose. I, for one, prefer knowing that you are safe here in Hogwarts—particularly with dementors patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade. Going would be quite the risk."

Ah. That perhaps made sense, if Black was supposed to have broken out of Azkaban to kill him. Still, this was the first he had heard of dementors being in Hogsmeade. For the first time, he was relieved that he hadn't gone. A weight seemed to lift off his shoulders. Of course, there was still the fact that today was Hallowe'en to consider. He wouldn't put it past this holiday to sneak a dementor into the school.

Perhaps his thoughts showed on his face, because Lupin (_Professor_ Lupin) asked, still in a quite mild voice, "Is something bothering you, Harry?"

Harry frowned, trying to figure out how much it made sense to say. But he wouldn't be surprised if everyone but he had come to Hogwarts already knowing the date of Riddle's defeat. Because he knew that that was how most of wizarding society thought of it—the day that the light triumphed over the Dark Lord. A day to celebrate. Not the day that a baby's entire world came crashing down around him.

But…if Mother were right, and Professor Lupin was one of his parents' old friends, he'd be one of the exceptions to that rule, wouldn't he?

For the sake of solving the mystery, he decided to take a risk, and trust Lupin. The decision had only a little to do with the slight fragmentation of his mind that remained, after all the Sorting Hat's work, and all the work he'd put into fake-occlumency. Or, at least, he _told_ himself that this was not a stupid mistake made due to lack of focus.

He glanced down at his tea, barely aware of its flavour. Too much else was occupying his mind. "It's today," he admitted, keeping his eyes downcast, and then staring earnestly at Lupin. "Hallowe'en is never a good day for me, anymore. Not since I learnt what happened on this day…and besides that… my first year here, our Defence professor let in a mountain troll that Ron and I had to fight to protect Hermione. And last year, the Chamber of Secrets opened for the first time in fifty years. Everyone else sees it as a day of celebration, however _I_—"

Lupin's face grew incredibly taut, as if all his facial muscles had clenched.

"I know what you mean," he conceded. "Ironically, Hallowe'en is supposed to be a day for honouring the dead who have passed. Your parents were good people, and they deserve such recognition, but I have no power to change people's minds…."

Harry leant forwards, his main point at last accessible. "Did you know my parents, then, Professor?"

Lupin paused, taking a sip of tea, and then pushed it away from himself, with a sigh. "I did indeed. In the interest of respecting the dead, although some might consider it unprofessional of me, I think that I ought to tell you that much, at least. Your father was one of my best friends, at Hogwarts. I can't help but think of him every time I pass by the Whomping Willow—"

"The Whomping Willow?" Harry repeated, with an inquisitive cocking of his head.

"The tree that stands by itself in the middle of the grounds. It attacks anything that comes near it. I daresay I needn't warn you to stay well away from it. It was transplanted here the year I started at Hogwarts—a boy in our year nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. It only seems right to pass that warning on to you, no matter how often your Dad ignored just those warnings, but James and Sirius never made much of warnings—"

His eyes widened, as if he realised suddenly just how much he'd said. He glanced at his teacup as if Harry had slipped veritaserum into it when he wasn't looking.

"You knew Sirius Black?" Harry pressed, deciding to let go of the far less important question of why the school would acquire such a dangerous tree, and then plant it where anyone could get to it.

Lupin closed his eyes, his expression pained. "I did. Or, I thought I did." His eyes opened a crack, his expression looking incredibly weary…and, as he had said before, lonely. "But I can't have known him very well, after all. The Sirius Black I thought I knew would not have done what this one has. He was no traitor."

Harry frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. "'Traitor'?" he repeated. "Whom did he betray?"

Lupin's eyes opened wide, as if only now realising he'd said that aloud. He glanced down at his tea again. "I must be tired…. Nothing. I made a mistake, is all."

_Lie_. But the issue was clearly sensitive, and Harry rather suspected he'd pushed his luck enough as it was. He pretended to accept Professor Lupin's explanation, all the while filing that away to mull over, later.

"I'm sorry. It must be tough, talking about such painful memories," Harry said, with a sympathetic smile, instead.

Lupin paused. He turned away, looking at the window, which served to make him more difficult to read. It was only that sixth sense for when people were lying that had let him know that Lupin's words of before were a lie—that and common sense. Lupin had had no outward tells—he must have a great deal of self-awareness, and rigid control over his emotions. How had Harry not noticed before? Did Professor Lupin hide it all under a pleasant façade?

"Being back at Hogwarts has made me a bit retrospective, I suppose," Lupin said, again in that light, pleasant voice.

Harry was just about to respond, when the door opened, and Snape entered, carrying a silver goblet from which steam or smoke wafted so thick that it blocked vision. Harry frowned, as Snape, still with casual care, as if this were not difficult for him at all to have carried this cup all this way without spilling a drop, set the goblet down before Professor Lupin on the table. He did not acknowledge Harry's existence, which was hardly surprising.

"You should drink that directly," Snape said, when Professor Lupin did not immediately pick it up and drink it down.

"Ah, yes. thank you, Severus. I was just showing Harry my grindylow," he said, with that same pleasant voice.

Snape still did not so much as twitch an eye to look at either.

"Fascinating. I have made an entire cauldronful, if you need more, Lupin."

Professor Lupin paused, and smiled. "That's very kind of you, Severus," said Professor Lupin, with a smile that looked rather forced. "I shall need some more tomorrow, I think, and then I should be fine."

Without giving further response, Professor Snape turned on his heel, and left. Harry had to wonder what that confrontation was about.

"What _is_ that?" he asked, standing to peer at the misty contents within the cup. Lupin grimaced, and picked the cup up, eyeing it warily, before taking a deep drink, and shuddering.

"Disgusting. Pity sugar makes it useless." He looked back at Harry, and gave a small smile. "I have been feeling a bit under the weather, as you might have noticed—it's why I canceled our last lesson. This potion that Professor Snape makes is the only thing that helps. I'm quite fortunate to be working with him: it is a difficult potion to make; not many wizards are up to the task."

Harry very much doubted that the potion was brewed out of the goodness of Snape's heart. More likely, Dumbledore had demanded it of him, and Snape, who, for all his faults, was loyal to Dumbledore, had begrudgingly betaken himself to the task.

"What were we talking about, now?" asked Professor Lupin, leaning his elbows on the table and steepling his hands together. "Something about Black?"

Harry nodded, unsure whether or not to bring back up Lupin's earlier words. He watched Professor Lupin drink the cup of what was evidently a revolting medicine down, making faces as he did.

"My tea will get cold by the time I can have anything with sugar in it. I don't know what I was thinking, having a cup of tea when Professor Snape was about to come 'round. I suppose he came early to keep me on my toes…. Well, Harry, you seem much better than you were at the beginning of term. Finally recovered from the dementors on the train?"

"Perhaps," Harry said, with a shrug. "With the help of occlumency and the Sorting Hat."

Professor Lupin's eyebrows rose. "_Occlumency_?"

Harry smiled. "The Sorting Hat's idea. It said that they siphon off pieces of people's soul—that's their food source, right? I pity the prisoners in Azkaban."

Lupin's gaze turned steely. "Don't. Azkaban is the place of the worst of society. I'll admit, I'm none too fond of dementors, myself, and I quite object to their use, but you have to understand that those subjected to them have earned the punishment—"

"Not always," Harry reminded him, in his softest, quietest voice. Professor Lupin managed not to look as though he were leaning forwards to listen, which was fairly impressive all on its own. "Hagrid was sent there, last year, for unleashing the monster of Slytherin on the school. But in reality, it's Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin. He controlled the basilisk." Harry ploughed right through Lupin's attempts to get more information, to come to his point: "And if Hagrid, who was innocent, could be sent there for two months, who knows what other prisoners there might be innocents suffering, too?"

_Who knows if Sirius Black suffered wrongly too?_ was the question he was really asking, but Professor Lupin didn't cotton on, which was probably just as well.

"Perhaps. But Azkaban makes everyone the same, in the end."

"But not Black," Harry pressed, determined to keep the conversation centred upon the man that he was starting to realise must have been his dad's schoolboy friend—Professor Lupin had just confirmed it.

Lupin sighed, looking down, folding his hands in his lap, and looking haggard and older than he was.

"They won't be sending him back to Azkaban," Lupin said, looking down at his table instead of at Harry. Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, but Lupin continued, seeming unaware of this fact. "There is worse than merely stealing away a man's good memories, forcing them to relive the worst moments of their lives, and draining away all happiness from a person. The dementors have a special ability—it's something of the wizarding world's idea of capital punishment—irreversible and absolute. They call it the Dementor's Kiss, and, as disgusting as it would be merely to have to kiss a dementor, that is a bit of a misnomer. No kissing is involved."

Harry stayed very still, and held his breath, waiting. "It is what they call it when a dementor sucks out a person's entire soul through the mouth."

"They kill—"

Lupin gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, no. You can survive without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are intact. But that essence of who you are, the thing that makes you _you_, will be gone. They're like muggle ideas of zombies, in the original conception of the term. Essentially, animated corpses."

Harry shuddered. Lupin saw, and nodded. He couldn't know all the turmoil this talk of souls and bodies devoid of a will of their own dredged up for Harry.

"Exactly," said Professor Lupin, with a grim smile. "And unlike you, he has no means by which to defend himself."

Harry thought it most prudent not to point out that he'd managed to protect himself just fine thus far with no such defences. That was why they were in this mess to begin with.

* * *

The Hallowe'en Feast was always entertaining, although it didn't quite take off the edge the holiday naturally had. Ron and Hermione had set aside their differences, and splurged on samples of what Hogsmeade had to offer. Hermione gushed about an antique bookshop—Hogsmeade was the only wizarding settlement in Britain, which meant that _all_ off the books were of wizarding origin…bar the odd muggle curiosity or two. She claimed that she didn't know him well enough to shop for him, but this lie was so blatant he didn't need that voice in the back of his mind identifying it as such. He suspected that Hermione now had a one-stop shop for gifts—both for him, and for Ron.

Ron seemed to have brought him a sample of every sweet in Honeydukes—but Ron assured him that there were, in fact, a great many that he suspected that Harry wouldn't like. Given names like "cockroach clusters" and "blood pops", Harry conceded the point. They'd also brought back a crate of something called "butterbeer" for Harry to try. He found it made a refreshing change from pumpkin juice, and felt much better for drinking it, as if it had been laced with heavy quantities of cheering charm. Perhaps that was the reason for Ron's big smile, and easy air.

Pressed, he told them that he'd done some studying and homework, and spent some time talking to Professor Lupin, on a number of rather personal subjects.

"Hermione," Ron said, voice stern and commanding, as Hermione opened her mouth to press for details. "If the new professor is not our new villain, than we ought to allow him the privacy of his own secrets."

Harry smiled his approval of Ron's decision. "It was mostly all about my parents, anyway," Harry said, with a shrug, as if it weren't important. "He did mention something about a violent tree on the middle of the grounds, however. The 'Whomping Willow'."

Hermione frowned. "That's not mentioned in _Hogwarts: A History_."

Harry wondered if she slept with that book under pillow. Someday, when he found a way to circumvent the spell preventing boys from accessing the girls dorms, he'd have to check.

They wandered back to Gryffindor Tower, late again, rather tired from good food, and the late hour, to find that quite a crowd had gathered before the entrance.

"What's going on?" someone asked.

"You can't all have forgotten the password!" Percy cried, pushing his way through the crowd with mutters of, "excuse me, I'm the prefect."

Harry rolled his eyes. Talk about being full of yourself.

Then, tension rippled through the crowd, starting at the front and rippling backwards, as Percy said, in a tight, strained voice, "Someone get Professor Dumbledore. _Now_."

A silence so complete that you could hear a pin drop settled, as if everyone were holding their breaths. Harry realised that he was. He glanced at Hermione, and then Ron, unable to mask his confusion. Today was just too much. Now what had happened?

Dumbledore parted the throng before him with messianic ease. Everyone deferred to him—or almost everyone. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were a bit too curious, and a bit too well-acquainted with the headmaster, to simply bow out.

In the gap he left in his wake, Harry caught a glimpse of three deep slashes in the fabric of the canvas of the Fat Lady's empty portrait. He sucked in a breath, sure that Hallowe'en had struck again—only he hadn't been witness, this time.

"Call Filch, have him search the school for the Fat Lady. We need to find out what did—"

"You'll be lucky," said a malevolent, crackling cackle of a voice. Harry closed his eyes, hoping against hope that that wasn't who he thought it was.

But yes, it was, indeed, Peeves.

"What do you mean, Peeves?" Dumbledore asked, in a laudably level voice.

"I've just run into her—running through the portraits on the third floor. Scared and shaking, she is. Poor thing," Peeves added the last as an obvious afterthought. Not even the first years believed him, by this point.

"Did she say who did this?" Dumbledore asked, an undercurrent of steel in his voice.

"Oh, yes," said Peeves, in what passed for a delicate, careful voice. "He got quite upset when she wouldn't let him into the Tower without a password, and attacked. Nasty temper he's got, does Sirius Black."

What?


	61. Ashes, Ashes

**Chapter Sixty-One: Ashes, Ashes**

Recent events recalled something Harry had forgotten, with an uncomfortable twinge, to his mind. The Foe-Glass Ron had given him—he'd gone through the trouble of imprinting himself on it, but then he'd never set it up in the dorms. The immediate threat of the dementors had put it in the very back of his mind. Now, he wondered—if he _had_ set it up, would it have recognised that Sirius Black would invade the Tower tonight?

There was a nagging suspicion that he was at least partly to blame for recent events. He resolved to set it up as soon as they could return to the Tower—whenever that would be. Hallowe'en fell on a Sunday this year, which was probably why it had been chosen as a Hogsmeade weekend, but they still had classes tomorrow.

He, Hermione, and Ron pulled themselves into an out-of-the-way corner, and began to discuss Black amongst themselves in low whispers, Harry throwing out suggestions without giving much attention or credit to any of them. The entire school was engaged in the same activity—or at least, everyone nearby was. For some reason, a section of Ravenclaw was talking about Tony Stark, which might, or might not, be pertinent to the discussions around the rest of the room.

Oh. Cloaking technology. Did that exist, and if it did, did it fall under weapons tech?

Rumours of Stark's latest affair _definitely_ didn't, however, so Harry tuned that section out again.

"You can't apparate _or_ disapparate inside Hogwarts!" Hermione practically shrieked at the nearby Dean Thomas, who had been unfortunate enough to suggest it.

"Just a suggestion, Hermione! He was supposed to be a brilliant wizard, though…do you suppose he might have found a way to—?"

Hermione was probably about to point out to Dean exactly what she later whispered to Ron and Harry about the Founders themselves setting up the protections that prevented such trivial magics as apparation from working, but at that moment Percy called for silence. He was in his element bossing people around, and Harry didn't feel a great urge to spoil it for him. Let him have his fun. He, Ron, and Hermione were out of the way, and could continue to discuss the matter in near-silence—

Oh, wait. He, _Ron_, and Hermione. Well, they could do that tomorrow as well as today. They might as well get some sleep, for the moment. But just as he was about to fall asleep, he came awake again, the near-silence interrupted by the sound of nearby voices. Dumbledore, Snape, and Professors McGonagall and Lupin clearly hadn't seen the three of them there. A surreptitious glance at Hermione and Ron showed that they were also wide-awake and listening.

Of course, it made sense that Dumbledore had had the grounds thoroughly searched, and it made even more sense that a man as smart as Black hadn't lingered, but why was Snape insinuating that Lupin was behind it all? Hadn't he heard what Lupin thought of Black? Lupin saw Black as an irredeemable traitor; he was the last person who would let Black into the castle!

Of course, he'd also said that Harry reminded him a lot of Sirius Black ("or at least, the man I thought I knew, back when we were in school together"), and his tone then had definitely been one of melancholy wistfulness. Still….

Wait, was _Harry_ actually thinking of defending _the defence professor_ against accusations that he sought for Harry's death? It was official: Hallowe'en was insane.

* * *

There was a lot less tapestry lying about, tonight. How much of that was his Mother's industry, and how much his own work on occlumency, he couldn't say for sure. Mother seemed very tired. He questioned when she'd last rested. This time, she stood as he entered the living room, setting down her needle and rushing over to throw her arms around him.

"My son! Forgive your mother her rudeness the last time we met. There was much to be done—"

"Mother, have you slept at all this month?" he asked, glancing around the room. You could see out the window, now—Mother seemed to be working on the last piece of tapestry. He hadn't seen any stitches in the garden or the forest; he rather suspected that, once sewn together, they melded back into a coherent whole with no sign of the stitches visible. But what did he know of souls, or sewing, or the like?

Still, he rather suspected her erratic behaviour was a result of sleep-derivation, if indeed souls suffered such.

"Never mind that," she said, smiling at him, through eyes full of tears. That was not a very good answer, and he considered telling her just that, but…tonight was the night of Hallowe'en. He wanted to at least have tonight go right. Besides, she was much older than he (he vacillated on just _how much_), and could doubtless take care of herself. "It must be Hallowe'en. What do you want to do?"

He blinked. "I think you should get some rest, Mum," he said, and she frowned.

"We only have one night a month in which to speak with one another. We should've had much more than that. I bet you have a lot of news to share."

He hesitated. "Well, I _have_ made some progress in teaching myself occlumency," he said, looking around the room again. "But mostly, I come bearing news."

She reached down to rest a hand lightly upon his shoulder. She always had the kindest of smiles. "Then come, sit, tell me everything." She made for the sofa with her sewing still on it, and he grabbed her arm before she could get very far.

"Outside," he said, eyes narrowing. "You need rest—or at the very least, a reprieve. I wish to see the fruits of your labours, besides."

She shook her head, but in resignation, and followed him outside.

He told her much of what had happened—there was perhaps not as much as he would like, to tell, but he told her that he had forgotten to set up the Foe-Glass, and then why this was important. The break-in didn't seem to fit at all—not with her description of Black's personality, nor his innocence. She frowned, pensive, her mind sharp despite her fatigue. But she had few more answers than he.

"But you told me he tried to access Gryffindor Tower on the night of Hallowe'en—when everyone in the castle would be at the Feast. Does that not suggest that his designs are not for your murder?"

Harry paused. "He may have forgotten the day—"

She shook her head fiercely. "No. Do you think it possible, with the castle bedecked for the holiday as it always is—and no less Hogsmeade, I would assume. Some even go a-souling in Hogsmeade. If he had forgotten the date, a quick glance inside Hogwarts would have reminded him"

Harry hadn't considered it. "That is true," he conceded. "But I do not understand his motivations, Mother! What _does_ he hope to achieve?"

And though they discussed it throughout the rest of Harry's visit, he awoke with no more answers to this end than before.

* * *

The break-in was all anyone would talk about for the next _week_, at the very least. It was a very good thing that no one seemed to know that Black had allegedly broken out of Azkaban to kill Harry; he'd expected to be the pariah-whose-presence-endangers-our-students after the break-in, but no one seemed to connect Black with Harry in any way.

Except for his friends. And his mother. And Professor Lupin. And Professor McGonagall, who wanted to ban him from quidditch.

Quidditch! Really, the quidditch pitch was hardly the place where anyone could lie in wait for him—although he had to admit he was rather exposed, in the middle of the air, thus.

He managed to talk her down to a reduced sentence of having the flight instructor accompany them, which…why didn't they do that anyway?

Wood didn't even seem to register her presence. He was fixated on the coming match against Slytherin.

Slytherin being Slytherin, and Malfoy being a complete and utter soulless bastard, still (had a dementor moved into the Malfoy estate in Draco Malfoy's early childhood, or something?), the match between Slytherin and Gryffindor, historically the inaugural match of the season, was rearranged at the last minute into Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor. Wood was justifiably incensed, and drilled them harder than ever.

It was clear to absolutely everyone that Malfoy was faking the injury that (allegedly) prevented him from playing the first match. Harry wondered how long he'd keep it up—he knew from experience what a skilled healer Madam Pomfrey was; there was no chance of Malfoy still being injured, or in any pain at all, bar the usual bumps and bruises that came with life, and adolescence in general (Harry had yet to hit his growth spurt, himself, and wasn't sure when it started).

Still, Wood's fanatic fervour didn't justify making Harry late to Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Had it been Professor Lupin in charge, he would have been fine, but as it was….

Well, he had had forewarning—Lupin had canceled their Patronus session, after all. But if he'd expected a substitute teacher, he still wouldn't have expected Snape.

He would, however, have expected Snape's nasty attitude, had he known Snape was going to be the sub for Defence. And, of course, Snape wouldn't be Snape if he didn't single out Harry for special torment. Harry had plenty of incentive to work on the other magic as it was, but a way to keep his mother in the physical world long enough to have a chat with Snape was quite a boost to his resolve. Also, he thought perhaps that Snape could read minds, making occlumency somehow all the more critical, even if his primary objective was to build a rampart around his _soul_. To keep it from being sucked out by the dementors.

The entire class turned to watch him enter, and he had to make a great effort not to scowl at them for making this even more of a scene than it was liable to become. Still, he probably deserved it; Snape was inevitably about to dock points "on account of tardiness", and for once he'd be somewhat justified. The world was a twisted place when Snape had justification for his vindictiveness.

"You are ten minutes late, so I think I'll make it _ten_ points from Gryffindor," Snape said, daring him to protest.

Harry made his way to his seat, asking, "And where is Professor Lupin, if I may ask."

"He is feeling unwell," Snape repeated. "It is nothing serious, and I'm sure he'll be back next week. Now, if Potter is quite satisfied, let us begin."

And he ordered them to turn to the back of the book, to the chapter on werewolves. He must have known, Lupin's mind being linear as it was, that they wouldn't have covered that chapter yet. Or, perhaps, he had other motives. He was rather inscrutable.

"Who can tell me the differences between the werewolf, and the true wolf?" he asked, next, stabbing his finger into the illumination of the introductory page as if slaying an actual werewolf. There was a certain savage cruelty that Harry rarely saw—not that Snape was ordinarily _nice_, but he was more the one for subtle malice and barbed words—a bit like Loki, Harry thought in something like horror. To see an overt display of aggression—it put Harry in mind of the time he'd embedded porcelain in his hands at the end of last year, when he'd figured out what was _really_ going on with Ginny.

In short, this was not good, and now was a time to keep his head down, and stay quiet. Ideally moving as little as possible as he did.

Ron and Hermione had not gotten this memo.

"No one?" asked Snape, ignoring Hermione's hand stretching to the ceiling as—to Harry's experience—only Snape could. It was rather distracting even for those on the edges of the room far away from her, the way her hand trembled and waved spasmodically. A malevolent smile curved Snape's lips.

Harry looked down at his textbook to keep from reacting. Ron was not the type to overlook such a confrontation, and Harry could almost _see_ Ron building himself up to do _something_. He grabbed hold of Ron's arm under the desk, to keep him seated, considering hissing a warning, but sure that Snape would hear and punish them anyway—just look what he did in the first lesson with Neville's toad. Although he might just have _guessed_ that Hermione were helping Neville, in which case he'd probably _guess_ that Harry was restraining Ron, now.

For the moment, however, Snape was too busy pursuing his first line of attack. "Well, well. I never thought I'd see the third-year class that wouldn't recognise a werewolf when it saw one—"

"Please, sir!" Hermione cried, dropping her hand, knowing he wouldn't call on her, and speaking in a quivery rush. Harry remembered his suspicion that her usual self-control seemed somewhat diminished, as if she'd resolved to "live life to the fullest". This would not end well.

Ignoring Snape's accomplished smirk, she pressed on, sounding, as usual, as if she'd swallowed the textbook, and it had disagreed with her stomach. "The werewolf differs from the true wolf in several ways. the snout of the werewolf is—"

"I don't recall asking you to show off, Miss Granger—"

"You asked if anyone knew the answer to your question, and ignored her attempts to respond. Why ask a question and refuse to let the person who knows answer it?" Ron demanded, leaping to his feet, throwing off Harry's hand. Harry buried his head in his hands, and sighed.

"_Sit down_, at least, Ron!" he hissed.

"Sit down, Mr. Weasley!" Snape echoed, in a considerably louder voice. "I will not have my authority questioned in my own classroom!"

"This is Professor Lupin's classroom, not yours!" Ron argued right back. He was still on his feet.

"_Sit down_!" Snape repeated. Third time was supposed to be the charm, and Ron, sure enough, slowly sat back down. Harry immediately, without taking his eyes off his textbook, clamped his hand down hard on Ron's arm to keep him from rising again. He'd sooner fall over. Ron glanced at him. Fury still radiated off of him. Well, at least Ron was loyal….

"Detention, Weasley. And ten points from Miss Granger, for her inability to respect authority. No one wants to listen to an insufferable know-it-all!"

Hermione burst into a flood of tears, which was telling—perhaps it was the added stress of taking so many classes, or her new resolution to live her life with no regrets, but she seemed a bit more emotional and unhinged than in previous years, anyway. But to be bullied thus by a _teacher_….

Harry bit his lip to keep from responding. Ron was still seething, arms crossed, and if looks could kill, Snape would be at least eighteen feet under.

"I expect for you to take your education seriously. Do the reading, while I hand back your work."

As the class finally stopped grumbling and set to reading the chapter, Snape stirred them back into aggravation by walking amongst them, commenting on their past marks, and how lenient Lupin had been. Either Lupin was Riddle's left-hand, and Dumbledore somehow didn't know it, or he was suffering the burden that only came of close association with James Potter.

Harry ignored all attempts Ron made to catch his attention, but eventually let go Ron's arm to the more easily take notes on the chapter. He wasn't exactly pleased that Ron had ignored all of his warnings.

Class couldn't let out early enough, and Snape made it no better by assigning them two rolls of parchment on the subject of how to identify and kill werewolves. A suspicion had taken root in Harry's mind, but he silenced it by telling himself that even _Snape_ wouldn't go that far—would he?

Hermione met his eyes as they left the classroom, and he could tell by her nod that she had come to the same conclusion as he.

Well, so much for that hope.

* * *

The first real chance Harry had for payback would probably be the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match—and who knew when _that_ would be? Right now, Hermione was a mess, and Ron seemed somewhat resentful of Harry not leaping to Hermione's defence—and his attempts to stop Ron. Harry sighed, and tried to explain it.

"Look, you should know Professor Snape by now," he said, adding in the "professor" through sheer force of habit, rather than any genuine respect, by now. "The only reason he: one, gave you detention; two, called Hermione—what he called her; and, three, goaded you both until you gave the reaction you did; was _so that you would_ do what you did. You played right into his hands!" Harry cried, spreading his own. Ron was about to say something more, but Harry waved a hand, and silenced him with a look. "Yes, what he did was unfair, and wrong, and we were thoroughly unprepared, but the only reason things escalated is that the two of you played to type and did exactly what he expected you to! If you could have just stayed calm—"

"It is not in my nature to overlook injury done to those I consider family or friends," Ron said. There was a warning tone to his voice that Harry summarily dismissed. "If it is in _yours_, the perhaps you should rethink your own priorities."

Harry stumbled back against the wall, wishing he'd waited for Ron's anger to abate before he confronted him. That had been really, _really_ stupid. Ron hesitated, seeing the distress that Harry was trying so hard to hide. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

"I apologise. I understand that you mean well, Harry, but there are people worth serving detentions for." He smiled at Hermione, who looked a bit startled, and then blushed, looking down at her feet. Ron frowned, brow furrowed, as he turned back to Harry. "However, I know that you were, in your own way, trying to protect us. Thank you. Yours was doubtless the wiser course of action, and I know that I don't always make the wisest choices."

But Ron didn't often stay angry long, so maybe it was alright.

* * *

The day of their first match of the season dawned bright and clear—if by "bright and clear", you meant "so dark it looks as if it's still night", and "lashing rain so cold it's almost sleet".

It might have counted as miraculous that the storm hadn't woken Harry. He was still rather drained and uncoordinated from his self-taught occlumency, and his professor-taught Patronus Charm. He hoped that it wouldn't affect the match. Wood was terrible enough as it was. Losing the quidditch cup this year might incite him to acts of violence, for all Harry knew—he seemed the type. At least, he did when he was escorting members of the team through the halls, hissing last minute pointers at them, or on the pitch, urging them to take the match seriously, with wild eyes and exaggerated gesticulations.

If nothing else, Harry would be glad to see the back of this match. In the ordinary way of things, quidditch was a release, but, this year being what it was, he was too on edge. His concern was not an attempt on his life by Sirius Black, but rather, the dementors. Somehow, being outside made him all the more aware of their presence, and his seventh sense kept trying to open, to pinpoint the threat. Only, they were many. It was a bit distracting.

Ginny and Ron went to sit in the stands with Hermione, with the understanding that they needed to be able to get down to the field quickly, and without much notice, if something should happen to one of the chasers, or Harry.

Harry privately admitted that the latter was the more likely of the two scenarios. Danger seemed to home in on him. He hadn't forgot last year's match, where Lockhart had removed the bones of his arm.

It came of something of a surprise to see that "Cedric Diggory", the captain and seeker of the Hufflepuff Team, was the same boy who had told off his fellow hufflepuffs for their whispered comments about him last year, during the "Heir of Slytherin" debacle. He probably questioned why Oliver Wood was being quite so stiff and rude. Aside from the threat of a manic Oliver Wood, Harry thought he mightn't mind too much if Diggory caught the snitch. But there _was_ Wood to consider.

Now was one of those few matches where being the slight (and therefore speedy) member of the team had its disadvantages. Diggory had enough muscle and weight to be less hindered by the heavy winds accompanying this particular storm. Ah, well. Harry would just have to make the best of it.

One thing he didn't understand (while completely understanding, mind) was why quidditch players couldn't cast spells on themselves or other members of their team. Indeed, the use of wands at all during quidditch was forbidden.

Everyone on the field could have used a bubblehead charm, and maybe an _impervius_, to keep off the rain. Surely, it had to be a violation of health regulations of some sort to put students out in such weather without even providing them protection from the storm. The Wizarding World and its sport.

Lucky for Harry that he was essentially impervious to the cold, himself (for whatever reason). It was the only thing about him that came close to an advantage, in this weather. Visibility was low, and the storm was only still in its early phases.

As it built, it grew progressively harder to hear Lee Jordan's commentary over the roar of the wind and the beating of the rain. He tried to glance back at the field every so often, straining his ears to hear what Jordan had to say. The more shots Gryffindor put through before he caught the snitch, the greater their lead, and the more they could afford to make mistakes, later. Not that he wouldn't go for the snitch if he saw it.

Once or twice, he intervened in the proceedings of the chasers, when Fred and George were busy or distracted, or just didn't see through all the rain. But he always returned to high above the stands.

With the sun invisible above the clouds, and unwilling to look at his wristwatch, which was too small and non-electronic for the magic of Hogwarts to affect much, it was difficult to know how long the storm (or the match) had gone on, before the thunder and lightning commenced. This year being as it had, and Harry being in rather a vulnerable state and place, it brought back to mind his memories of the dreams. That fractured, fragmented part at the end.

He thought of Thor. In first year, he had thought of the sky as Thor's domain—that this was a borrowed arena. It was difficult not to further consider the violence of this storm a warning of impending doom. It was hard not to consider it a final warning, before _vengeance_ would be exacted upon him by a force greater than he could possibly withstand.

At least, as he now was.

But Thor, he told himself, could not possibly know he was here (_And how did he find you, in New York?_ demanded that horrible voice that represented the part of him that he'd disavowed). Even if he knew that _Harry_ were here, _Harry_ had done nothing wrong.

Electricity crackled through the air, unceasing. He tried to focus on the game, he did, but it was difficult.

Oliver Wood called a time-out, urged him, in much less polite terms than these, to get his act together and do his job, and Harry took to the sky, almost ablaze with an awareness of all the energy around him (he hadn't been able to keep his seventh sense closed). It was hard to focus when a part of him half-expected any given bolt of lightning might strike _him_, particularly.

_What's the matter? Scared of a little lightning?_

_I'm not overly fond of what follows_.

He'd never been closer to agreeing, even as he fiercely _disagreed_. His mind seemed to want to tear itself in half with indecision. The early memories of Loki's life were the best memories Harry _had_, even were they borrowed. But now, he understood that Thor was…well, more than a bit frightening, too.

Especially if you were only mortal.

Something odd, an unfamiliar sort of magic, tugged at his attention, and he glanced towards the stands. A flash of lightning, as if timed for dramatic effect, lit up the stands just as he looked, and there, in the empty top seats, was the form of a great black dog. It was huge, but dripping wet—or possibly possessed of long, shaggy fur. Its eyes were not glowing red—or they were closed. In that brief second that he had to look, it was difficult to know, and unlike the last time, a stray dog was not liable to just show up in the middle of the grounds at Hogwarts, with none aware of its passing, even.

Harry's grip on the Nimbus Two Thousand tightened. It might have been a death omen. In that case, it was doubtless intended to foreshadow what immediately followed it.

Cedric Diggory raced for the snitch, which he was only aware of when someone (it was hard to tell _whom_) called out, "Harry, look!" and pointed. But there were only a couple of seconds to redirect the broom, and his attention, before he felt the beginnings of a piercing cold settling in his lungs, and he had to look away, to try to find the source. He imagined a solid wall around him, one that operated outside the physical world; it surrounded what some books might call his _aura_, invisibly following him, shielding his soul from some of the dementor's effects.

Except that there wasn't just one dementor. No, indeed, there were far more than that—an innumerable amount, and it made him realise, with the abruptness of a blow, just how much more difficult it was to work any magic at all, the way that it became so _very much_ harder, the more dementors there were.

Tens? Hundreds? _Thousands_?

He tried to draw the wand from the holster he carried it in, but he could feel it slipping through his numbing fingers. He could feel his occlumency shield breaking, and he fortified it, wishing that _servo stellas_ were the sort of spell that could be used on mind magics. But he hadn't even been aware of the existence of those, when he'd created it. Besides, his occlumency was (particularly now, when he was under so much duress) still mostly made of the _other_ kind of magic—and that would never be a sort of magic compatible with such a spell. After all, the _other_ kind of magic was always exactly as strong as he made it. There was nothing for _servo stellas_ to _do_ with it. Which meant that he had to funnel magic into his occlumency shields _directly_, and _stay focused_.

He needed another time-out.

But his thoughts were growing distorted, jagged, coming in-and-out of focus, although in a different way from how his awareness had woven in and out in those last dreams.

The screams had begun, and they were growing louder. Now, for the first time, he heard a new voice—not Riddle, nor yet Lily Evans. It was a male voice, and by the words it spoke, he knew it.

_Lily, it's __**him**__. Take Harry, and run!_

It was James Potter. His dad. Never before, that Harry could recall, had he heard his voice. There was a vague sort of familiarity to it nonetheless, as if, deep down, part of him had stored it in his memories of infancy, now being accessed.

_Avada Kedavra!_ cried Riddle.

A thud, and then the swishing of robes as Riddle walked away. A soft creaking of stairs, and slight squeal as a door opened, and then Riddle was addressing Lily Evans.

_Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!_

_Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now._

_Not Harry, please! Take me; kill me instead…have mercy, have mercy…._

That word again. "Mercy".

Another memory tried to form, but Harry managed to stop it—or rather, to hold it off, for the moment.

_Avada Kedavra!_

Green light. Badness. A thud. And then….

_Avada Kedavra!_

Another flash of green light, and…. Pain. So much pain, he couldn't think straight, and he had no idea where he was.

_The only way not to break—_

_No!_ cried a voice that he shouldn't be able to hear. He'd heard its owner die, just a little while ago. _It is only a __**memory**__ of pain! You are stronger than this. The people who love you have faith in you. The Patronus Charm! Hurry!_

His happy memories were all used up. And he had no idea where the swarm of dementors even were, now. He didn't even know where _he_ was, only that, wherever it was, his mother was near. But _love_. He could use _love_.

But his awareness of his body, his physical self, was gone. He'd been driven too deeply within. It had happened before—the first time he'd encountered a dementor—but not this quickly, and not this deep. He could feel a sharp pain, although he couldn't attach it to any part of his body, flooding his senses, precluding any attempts to return. He could feel where it was that chunks and pieces were being torn from his _soul_. He remembered being told that a soul could only regenerate so much at a time. It was a slow process.

He thought of Mother, sewing together the torn shreds of his soul. Now, he could see them being torn apart, but they didn't look like trees or grass or sky anymore. They were just colour, and shape, indescribable, ineffable. He was almost certain that none of those parts belonged to the part of him that he'd disavowed. No, that was over _there_, looking somehow solid—a long, sharp, shard of glass amidst a clear pool of formless water. Or melted glass.

But he had only a couple of seconds to take all this in, before he was drawn into another, older memory.


	62. Some Reassembly Required

**Chapter Sixty-Two: Some Reassembly Required**

Naturally, Thor managed to be the first one down to the pitch when Harry began to fall, outpaced only by Dumbledore, who oozed power such as Thor had seen only from his father. Although, even Dumbledore wasn't _that_ powerful. Dumbledore waved his wand at Harry, first, and Harry's momentum slowed. Then, he turned blazing eyes upon the dementors. Even here on the ground, their power was overwhelming. Thor swayed on his feet, righted himself, and continued running towards the place that, given Harry's current trajectory, would most likely be his point of impact.

It made for slow going. It wasn't the storm—not the rain—that hindered Thor. Even a storm he hadn't called, like this one, deferred to him if he pushed at it; although he couldn't send it away, it drew aside around him to let him pass. No, the problem was the dementors. Running was very difficult with dementors sucking all the strength out of you. Gritting his teeth, he managed to stave off the bad memories straining to reach the surface.

Perhaps they _were_ as bad as Wanda Maximoff.

Dumbledore somehow (how, Thor didn't know; he had more pressing concerns) caused the dementors to stop draining the happiness out of everything around them.

Running became easier after that. Due to Harry's staggered rate of descent, Thor reached him before he could crash into the ground, managing to mostly catch him, and then to lay him gently down in the grass. There was no sign that Harry was aware of any of it, and Thor half-expected him to open his eyes, apologise for everything he'd done, and then….

He found his mind trying to return to the night that Loki had died in his arms, just this way. But Harry would not die. Thor refused to let him. He kept the gift from the Egyptian goddess on hand at all times, but he could see that, for the moment, at least, Harry was still breathing, albeit shallowly.

"Call off the match!" cried an unfamiliar voice, startling him. "We'll set a rematch—give Potter some time to recover. I didn't realise; I didn't know!"

"He wouldn't have caught the snitch, anyway," said a sullen Wood. "Wasn't in his game mind, today. Wonder why that was?"

Thor had noticed it too, had wondered the same thing. He'd seen, with his unusually sharp vision, the way Harry started and flinched at each bolt of lightning. He'd even humoured the idea that it might be a remnant of memory. But he didn't like to think that his brother might be _afraid_ of him. Perhaps he had cause.

"The dementors must count as extenuating circumstances. Everyone knows that Potter's more sensitive to them than most; they skewed the odds!"

"You won fair and square, Diggory!" Wood snapped. "Just take it and shut up about it!"

He stormed off.

"How is he?" asked "Diggory", now at Harry's side. Thor blinked. He hadn't expected quite so much concern from a complete stranger. Diggory wasn't even a doctor—at least Stephen's reaction had had that explanation. Still….

"He needs to see Madam Pomfrey," Thor said, as if he had any idea.

"Will he be okay?" asked Ginny, kneeling down at Harry's side. He wasn't sure—there was still so much rain—but he thought she might be crying. Her voice was something of a quiet warble.

He wished that he at least knew the answer to her question.

"Madam Pomfrey will know better," he said. Angelina Johnson touched down nearby, joined by the Twins.

"I'll help; let me help," said Diggory, who looked as if he could probably lift a great deal more than the average seeker. Thor gave a strained smile.

"You may help me carry him to the Hospital Wing," he conceded. Diggory had no idea how much trust Thor was showing in him.

Diggory conjured a stretcher, and helped lift Harry onto it. As they bent down to help lift Harry onto it, he noticed a familiar polished stick lying in the grass. Harry had tried to defend himself. Thor picked the wand up, and put it in his own pocket for temporary storage.

A quick _ferula_ decreased the chances that Harry would slide off, by binding him in place. Just for the moment. Thor did not want to think what might happen if Harry awoke to find that he couldn't move.

Just what had the dementors done to him? He looked far worse than he had the first time. If he woke…would it be as it had been in the hospital? Could he fight Harry, at Hogwarts, whilst still keeping both of their secrets?

He'd just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

* * *

The world was a mess of colourful, swirling fog, that he pressed through only with much difficulty. It helped that he knew his intended destination. On his way, he passed a homogenous, empty landscape. And it took longer to reach Mother's cottage than he liked. Still, it was with no small amount of relief that he came upon it at last, an island of reality within his otherwise much-tattered mind. Well, at least Mother was alright. He hoped.

He threw the door open with a bang, and peered around at what he could see of the cottage. It looked much as it always had. That was good. _Again_, this was the last bastion against the dementors. This time, however, the damage was far more extensive than the last.

"Mother?" he called, despite knowing full well where she would be: on the sofa, sewing with the dagger-needle. He gave a slight wince when he saw the window again filled with fabric, the opaque sky and trees barring his vision.

Outside of the house, he knew, the tapestry was blank. As it entered the house, it gained substance and identity. Mother reattached ideas to one another, and as she repaired those connections, they returned to their original tasks. He watched her for a moment, seventh sense wide open, as he approached. She did not cease from her labours, nor even look up. He sighed, walking past the fireplace and the table, to her sofa. Perhaps she would look up, then.

"How are you here, now, my son?" she asked him, still with that unwavering focus directed towards her work. He had the feel of what she was doing, now. She should not have to work so hard, to save _him_. He said nothing, watching her work, which perhaps roused her suspicion. But she could outwait him; that fact, he knew well.

He sighed, considering the merits of sitting on the table instead of a sofa covered with "cloth".

"The dementors—they attacked at the quidditch match." And it had to have been an attack, he knew—their mere presence was not enough to drain away a man's essence the way they had. They inhaled positive emotions, stirring up memories good and bad, but leaving the bad to rise and then fall—silt in disturbed waters, tea leaves stirred by a spoon. The tea is drunk, the water rushes onwards. The refuse of silt and leaves remain behind.

"They drove me into the centre of my mind. I suppose that I am still alive, merely unconscious. Dumbledore's doing, no doubt." He gave a rather sharp, bitter laugh, and Mother at last cast a sharp glance in his direction. He knew that her glance was a sort of reflex—to see if he looked different, if he'd changed (as with the addition of the boots, before), or whether he might be an impostor. But he knew that he looked just as he always did, in Dudley's overlarge grey sweater, and pants that only stayed put through tight cinching of the belt. There were no visible clues for her to pursue. He pretended not to notice the swift glance in his direction, or the stinging flash of relief that followed. He just kept on with the thought he'd started: "For all the good it did."

"He may have saved your soul," Mother said, her voice stern as he had rarely heard it, had rarely had cause to hear it. The unspoken words: _you should be grateful_.

"Regardless, I am not, as you might think, _really_ here," he said, content with having most of her attention, for the moment. A puzzled frown creased her brows. "I mean to say that the dementors have done quite a bit of damage here. I am not my conscious self. I am the part that my conscious self generally pretends to prefer doesn't exist."

Her hands began to shake. She knew what that meant, even without being privy to the occasional arguments he and the part of his mind that was active during the day usually engaged in. She opened her mouth to speak, and before she could, he took the needle and thread from her.

"You ought to have reminded me that you no longer possess much magic of your own. You do not have the magic to use thus, and therefore have been forced to borrow mine, and to use what little remains to you." He shook his head. "I refuse to allow you to drain yourself to death, Mother."

He focused energy into his hands, full of intent, and reached for her now empty hand, with his right, which had grabbed hold of the tapestry, and was therefore just as empty, now. Pure energy flowed from him—from his _soul_, into hers. He poured it into her as he once had his brother. As he had Ginny. But now, there was no injury to siphon the life right back out.

"If you had told me, I would have done this before. You needn't have suffered as you did, Mother. You should have told me."

Tears trembled in the corners of her eyes. She looked much better, if still rather tired, and haggard, and, of course, worried for him. Nevertheless, she attempted to conceal it under a stern veneer of reprimand.

"You should not waste your energy thus, Loki."

He smiled, spreading his hands wide. He frowned at the folds of grey fabric that fell down to his elbows at the motion, but all it took was a thought to make the clothes he was now wearing fit. What would his conscious self make of _that_, he wondered. "I would not consider restoring your energy to be a waste, Mother. I am in no danger of running out of energy, even now. In fact—" he looked at the window, all that fabric threaded through it as through the eye of a needle. Then, he glanced at the sharp needle still in his hand. He gathered his thoughts, and his will, thought hard about what he wanted, and brought his will to bear on the problem at hand. "—I think I might be better suited to resolving this problem."

He couldn't restore the entire thing, and doing what he had, had sapped most of his energy, but he'd cured a large swathe of the area that was supposed to be his soul. Even he wasn't sure exactly how much—ten percent, perhaps. But it was much more work than his mother had accomplished.

It was pointless to pretend that his recent efforts had not drained most of the energy he'd just claimed to have, but his mother seemed to sense the effects it had at once—perhaps, as a permanent resident, and his guardian, she was more aware than he of the state of his soul.

Loki frowned. He didn't much care for that thought. It brought back some rather bitter memories. Thankfully, Mother was there to distract him.

"How—?" she asked, leaning back. She blinked, and as her eyes closed, she kept them shut, seeming pensive. "How were you able to do these things, and yet the dementors were able to force their way through the protections that you have spent months in practicing? Whence _comes_ all of this energy, Loki?"

He sat down, in the most casual manner imaginable, right next to her on the sofa, giving a look of feigned apathy over his shoulder to the leagues of destroyed fabric still behind him. The amount of material streaming through the window was still so great that you couldn't look out through the blankness of the fabric to the probable blankness of outside. But Mother believed he'd made some progress. He would need to rest and recover before trying that again, however.

At least Mother was restored—as much as he could restore her, anyway. She still needed rest. Wasn't that what the dead were _supposed_ to do: rest in peace?

"I am what my conscious self refuses to acknowledge about himself. It is not only a matter of memories, and _culpability_. What mortal man could hold an army of dementors at bay single-handed?" He glanced at her, askance, where she sat upon the sofa, hands in her lap, as she considered his words. She seemed to start to understand what he meant. "Would one laid low by such men as the Dursleys stand a chance against _those_? My conscious self thinks himself weak, and therefore weak is what he is, in a moment of crisis. He thinks Loki strong, and hands over most of the strength he possesses to _me_."

The realisation hitting his mother bore most of the external indications of a physical blow. She curled an arm around herself, as if cushioning a blow, sucking in a great gasp of air, as she looked over at him.

"You could have _died_!" she said, perhaps somewhere between Lily Evans and the queen. The dementors had wrought havoc and overturned his internal sense of order—although _chaos_ was, fortunately for him, something of a strength of his. But his conscious self….

"That which the conscious mind denies…a dangerous thing to be. Wouldn't you agree, Mother? I think my conscious self may have done its best to _evict_ me. And then where would I be?"

She put her head in her hands, and he knew by that to back off.

* * *

"Why hasn't he woken up, yet?" asked Hermione, fretting and wringing her hands. "He had by now, the last time. You should hit him, Ron. That's what brought him back—"

Thor shook his head. "No," he said, turning to face her. She was already mourning. "It will do no good—you heard Madam Pomfrey. The number of dementors that came to this quidditch match was far more than the two we encountered on the train. It is more impressive that he did not lose his soul—or perish from the strain of attempting to hold them back. He will wake when he will."

He reached down to set the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand in between Harry's fingers. There was no reaction, but he liked to think that Harry might at least be able to channel its power even from whatever depths of his mind he'd sunken into. He had gone beyond their hearing—a place near worse-than-death. The gift of the Egyptian goddess would not avail him against this threat.

Katie Bell entered the Hospital Wing after peering around the slightly-opened doorway, as if she might have mistaken the location.

"Still out like a light, eh?" she asked.

Silence.

"I'll tell the others," she said, slinking back away in defeat, and closing the door. By others, of course, she meant the rest of the quidditch team, as well as several members of gryffindor house whom McGonagall was less willing to allow to remain in the Hospital Wing for such a protracted time: Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus. Diggory—whose given name was "Cedric", evidently—occasionally appeared, as well, to see whether or not Harry had yet regained consciousness.

It had, after all, been several hours.

* * *

"Where, then, is your conscious self?" Mother hazarded to ask an unknown time later. The seasons around Mother's cottage changed throughout the year, but the hour remained the same. She must rely upon some internal means of time-keeping to know when they would meet or part. He thought that she had waited for less than an hour before resuming her self-appointed task of sewing his soul back together.

He might have been inclined to say "what of him?", but he knew how dire this situation was. This was not an instance of a schism of consciousness. But even still…if _he_ were all that remained of Harry Potter, did he have enough soul, was he whole enough, to go about pretending that nothing was wrong?

He recalled, in a dim memory amongst a jumbled myriad belonging to this life _alone_, that a fragment of Voldemort's soul might be lurking here, also. He had found no sign of it, but was almost inclined to go looking. If Mother's soul had protected him from Voldemort, it might follow that Voldemort's soul would not have gone far. However, it might just as likely have been isolated, or semi-isolated, on the spiritual equivalent of another plane of existence. It could not be completely isolated—Dumbledore was a brilliant wizard, and he believed that Harry's ability of parseltongue came from Voldemort. But it might be only tenuously connected to Harry's own soul-space, in which case, it was, first of all, doubtless safe from the effects of dementors—or at least, free from anything less than the Kiss—and, for two, attached by some symbol that even Loki would have a hard time locating amongst everything else.

"Might he not be trapped out there—in the mist?" she asked, turning her head briefly to look out the other window of the room.

"He might," Loki conceded, still a bit haggard from a second bout of widespread soul repair. The difference in the flow of material coming through the window was becoming noticeable. He thought he might have repaired a third of his soul, by now. This was very slow going, but it was necessary to rest and to recover, both for him, and for his mother. And there was always a need to keep enough magic in reserve, in case of some nebulous manner of emergency.

He knew what point she was approaching, and was therefore unsurprised when she continued, "Then, should you not be out there, looking for it?"

"No," he said, with great conviction. "My primary objective should be precisely what it _is_: repairing my soul. If it is out there, lost in the mist, it will be incorporated as my magic reaches it. When that happens, I will have the less distance to travel, being closer to the surface. The immediate threat has gone."

He could tell she didn't approve, but she didn't fight him, either.

* * *

"Are you _sure_ he's unconscious?" Wood demanded, as if everyone in the room might have made a joint mistake.

"The last thing he needs is your attitude," snapped Hermione. "It wasn't _his_ fault, you know! He didn't ask for dementors to affect him worse than everyone else! He didn't throw the match!"

Wood blinked, staring at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. He had never encountered this version of Hermione Granger before, and clearly was at a loss as to how to respond.

"I know that! I—I—er, you know what, I think I'll just come back later."

He beat a hasty retreat. Ginny made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sniffle, and blew her nose. She'd come early in the morning of the second day, and was still here. McGonagall had at last conceded defeat, and given her permission to stay. She seemed quite as bewildered as Thor as to when Ginny had grown this fond of Harry. Was it on account of what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets?

* * *

He had to wonder how much soul needed to be sewn back together before he could regain consciousness. If he had repaired roughly half of his soul—as he thought he had, now—and, perhaps fifteen percent had remained unaffected, which was perhaps a bit generous—that was nevertheless over half-repaired. Was it just that there was a specific part of his soul responsible for consciousness, and that still needed work? Then his thoughts stalled, and redirected themselves.

Was he _truly_ considering having _over a third of his soul in disarray_, still, a _negligible_ setback?

He hadn't even left the cottage since his arrival. Perhaps he should go, and see for himself how much they had accomplished. He turned back around, and headed back to Mother's sofa. The window was a little over half-full of the fabric coming from outside. She continued to work with great industry, no matter what he tried. He had developed the habit of reserving at least some energy to replenish hers, whenever he suspected that she might be tiring. This seemed to be the most that he could do for her.

Occasionally, she relaxed enough to speak with him more of her memories of her life as Lily Evans—of his dad, James Potter, and of Sirius Black, in particular, although not-yet-Professor Lupin featured in some of the tales as well. Incorrigible pranksters, she had called them, and far too smart for their own good.

_Does that perhaps remind you of someone?_ did not need to be said. He remembered again the comparison she had made of Sirius Black to both him and Thor, when she'd pled his innocence at the start of the school year.

"I remind Professor Lupin of Sirius Black, also," he mused. "Perhaps that similarity is what gives him pause when speaking to me."

"He has lost much, has poor Remus, between his malady, and losing all three of his best friends in various wise. Close as brothers, they were."

He started at the sound of his Mother's voice; he hadn't expected her to contribute anything to his current thoughts, but she relaxed more and more often, as the flood of damaged fabric began to ebb.

"Do you know what became of them?" he asked. She never seemed willing to talk about it on her own, and now he resorted to asking flat out.

"Pettigrew always had a sort of feeling of inferiority to James and Sirius, I think," she said, voice gentle and coaxing, as if she knew the effect the words would have on him. "I suppose he felt overlooked in their presence, and jealousy drove him to do what he did. But only he knows for sure. You should seek him out."

Jealousy, again! There must be _some_ sort of force that wove the fates of men and gods, or that theme would not appear quite so often in his life.

"Yes," she said. "I thought you might take that news badly. Forgive me."

She returned to her sewing.

* * *

"He _is_ going to wake up, isn't he?" asked Ginny, again. She hadn't asked since the Incident had first happened. Only the steadfast kept coming after the second day. Thor clenched his hands into tight fists, and thought of the long-ago night when _he_ had himself nearly died. Then, he thought of the time he had snuck into the muggle hospital. But how could he do that again, if indeed it were required? Last time, he had succeeded only because Harry had lent him the invisibility cloak, already. He was sure that Harry had continued with his practise of keeping it on his person at all times, but that didn't mean that Thor would be able to borrow it.

"He is suffering from persistently low magical reserves, along with whatever the dementors did to him. He shows all the signs of prolonged exposure to dementors. He just needs time to replenish his energy, and to recover from the attack. These things take time, and with him already sensitive—" Madam Pomfrey sniffed, tears in her eyes, and moved away from them.

Perhaps she'd thought that that would reassure them. However, only Hermione seemed to have any idea what she was talking about, although Thor thought he'd heard Loki mention magical reserves once or twice.

How could Harry be using magic whilst unconscious—or for what other reason were his reserves remaining low?

"Excuse me," said a voice at the entrance to the Hospital Wing. All four of them jumped, as if they were doing something they weren't supposed to, as a figure in shabby black robes entered the room, standing a respectful distance from Harry's bed. "I only thought I would check up on him. How is he doing?"

There did seem to be genuine concern in his voice.

"Magical exhaustion," Hermione said. "That on top of the dementors, I suppose…."

Lupin sighed, and hung his head, and looked so sorry that Ginny pulled up a chair for him.

And from then on, Lupin joined them whenever he had the time.

* * *

With Mother always occupied, there was little to do in the cottage. He seemed to feel himself constrained to the ground level, and refused to move far from his mother. But there was no need for food in this place, which meant that he spent his waking hours pacing, and thinking. He thought there was another time when such pursuits had occupied most of his thought, but it was either in the muddle outside, or beyond recall, and therefore after the Chitauri Invasion—not worth thinking about.

He thought that perhaps only a fifth of his soul remained in such tattered disarray—there was a sort of knowledge there, in the part of him that was open to his sixth sense—which was most of him, in truth. As only a fragment of his self, he was essentially a being of only mind and soul.

Just where was the piece of his mind tarnished by Thanos? he wondered. But he knew that his mind was a rather different place from his soul. "He" spent most of his time there, after all. Knowledge that "Harry" refused to admit he possessed, memories (which in truth straddled the line between mind and soul) he refused to consider. Thanos's taint was located somewhere in his mind; it made sense not to see it here. All the same, he kept returning to the question whether it had been let loose, and whether or not it was at large in the Waking World.

Really, for that knowledge alone, it was imperative that he wake, soon.

* * *

"And where is Thor, Mother?" he asked, leaning against the arm of the sofa. He was beginning to recover his strength, but as he recovered it, it flowed back out to repair his soul. By now, he'd mastered this. It hadn't taken long to understand the ebb and flow, although his style was quite different from his Mother's. She brought the substance into her sanctuary, transfigured it back into what it should be, and as a result of her doing so, it returned to where it had been. He, on the other hand, sent energy out into the externality of his internal world, and as it reached something damaged, it repaired it. They were both slow processes, one visible, one invisible, one external, one internal. The duality of it made him feel certain that this was the best way to go about things.

She sent him another sharp look. "I have said before that I am ignorant of his precise whereabouts. Do you mean to suggest that _you_ know where he is?"

She _almost_ sounded suspicious.

He gave a small smile, and an offhanded wave of a hand. "Perhaps I have my suspicions. But my conscious self would never hear them. Shall I tell _you_ of what I suspect, Mother?"

For once, she had no ready answer.


	63. The Twins' Secret

**Chapter Sixty-Three: The Twins' Secret**

His first thought was that someone had set him on fire, which, in retrospect, was a foolish thought to have, but it was the only way to explain the way that everything seemed to hurt. Then the pain vanished—or rather, diminished to a degree that he could think and function, and he realised just how silly it was. He was sensible enough to sit up _slowly_, and with great care. The last thing he remembered was the dementors swarming the air above the quidditch pitch.

"Oh! You're awake! Thank God!" said a voice to his right, and his head snapped in that direction before he could help it. A wave of pain, a rather nasty headache, accompanied his motion, and his hand shot to his head, applying pressure, as if that ever helps. It just made him realise that his hand and arm still hurt, too.

"Not exactly," he said to her, in response. "And, _please_, keep it down. My head still hurts."

Ginny sniffed in response, as if this was far too much to ask, but then she smiled.

"Your adoring fans will want to know the news," Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"…'Fans'?" Harry repeated. "I rather thought I'd be the gryffindor house pariah again. It _is_ the right time of year for it, going by last year. And I lost the match."

"Diggory wanted a rematch, but Wood concedes that he won fair and square," Ginny said, her voice barely above a whisper, for which he was grateful.

Only one of his guests had yet to say anything, and he was clearly building himself up for it. Harry, resigned to it, braced for impact.

"It is good to see you awake again, little brother," said Ron, with a bright smile, instead. "We feared the worst for awhile."

"…'For awhile'?" Harry repeated. Had he been turned into a parrot, or something?

"You have been unconscious for over four days," Ron said, in confirmation.

Harry pretended to pout. "Then, I beat my old record! Fah!"

Hermione and Ginny looked back and forth between the two of them in evident confusion as Ron's mood soured.

"Harry, I have told you before, you—"

"—shouldn't make light of my own death. I know, I know!" Harry cried, waving his hands. "Someone tell me what happened. And by 'someone', I mean 'Hermione'," he hastened to add when Ron opened his mouth again.

Ron's eyes narrowed, but he kept quiet, as Hermione began to relate what had happened after the dementors swarmed the field. She had seen Dumbledore's confrontation with the dementors. She knew what spell he had used to slow Harry's fall.

"I think I may have developed a universal fear of heights," he said, aiming for levity.

"Do you want me to tell you what happened, or no?" Hermione snapped. He blinked as if she had just slapped him.

"Ah, no, go on! Forget I said anything!" he said, eyes wide. He had no idea how to deal with this version of Hermione Granger.

She related the aftermath of the quidditch match—how Diggory had caught the snitch before realising that the dementors were there (you had to admire his focus), and then demanded a rematch, and the way Wood had, in the most unsporting fashion, conceded defeat.

"The quidditch team will want to know that you finally woke up," Hermione mused.

"What happened to my wand?" Harry demanded. Ron frowned, and then handed it over, for what he explained was at least the tenth time. With Harry unconscious, the wood kept slipping from his grasp. Only the suspicion that it was somehow helping Harry to recover had kept Ron at it. Harry took a moment to marvel at _that_ level of persistence. Harry stared at it, as if he'd not expected to ever see it again, and then slid it into the holster. Invisibility cloak? Check. Wand? Check. Broom?

"And my broomstick? If I fell off, did it fall after me?" he asked. Neville's hadn't, first year, he didn't think, but then, that was an old, school broom.

A pause.

"It flew into the Forbidden Forest, after Neville's?" he asked. Hermione frowned, confused, clearly not remembering that first lesson. A glance around the room showed that neither Ginny (of course) nor Ron seemed to know what he meant, either. It was Ron who answered, as if it were his solemn duty.

"Ah, no. It hit the Whomping Willow. That is a tree in the centre of the grounds that—"

"—that attacks anything that comes near it," Harry finished for him, moving his hand still pressing his head to cover his face. "Right. A violent tree that nearly cost a student an eye. Surely, it couldn't do much damage to a broomstick."

He couldn't readily identify what he was feeling. Resignation mixed with hope, perhaps.

"Where have you heard of—?" Hermione began.

"Professor Lupin told me. Go on, Ron, what were you saying?"

"The Whomping Willow is—violent."

"We did manage to find the pieces," Ginny offered, in a tremulous voice. She held up a suspiciously compact opaque bag. She handed it over to him as if she expected for him to be angry with her. He mustered a reassuring smile for her, instead. _No hard feelings for the messenger. See!_

He knew by the way the contents had settled that there was no chance of restoring the broomstick, but he also knew that he'd keep the pieces and look at them anyway, when no one was around to watch. Just when had he become so sentimental?

"Is he awake, yet?" asked another voice, as its owner entered the Wing.

"Okay, and what is Professor Lupin doing here?" Harry asked.

The others sighed, almost as a unit. Clearly, this would be a complicated story.

* * *

Harry's convalescence was swift, once he awoke—most of the tedious, prolonged healing processes had already happened in the days he'd been unconscious. He'd missed quite a few classes, but not even Snape made a fuss over this—he rather suspected that Dumbledore had somehow silenced him, because he still received sour looks. Besides, this was Snape. On the other hand, Malfoy had celebrated Harry's defeat by finally removing his cast and admitting that he could use both of his arms, again.

It took two days before his body stopped hurting enough for it not to overwhelm his emotional responses. He discovered that he seemed to have been in something like shock for the first two days, or something, a period of numbness where he just _thought_, which was, comparatively, much easier to handle. However, now that his body was pronounced good as new by Madam Pomfrey (barring the lingering effects of life at the Dursleys, and his harrowing near-death experiences), he had to deal with the emotional fallout of what had happened.

He was remembering more and more of what had happened every day. He'd made a special stop by Professor Lupin's office to talk to him about what he'd overheard, for which knowledge Lupin seemed at once grateful and resentful. Nevertheless, he agreed to continue their dementor lessons, after that evidence of how urgent the matter was, with the acknowledgement that term was drawing to a close (it was November, after all) and that he needed time to prepare for the winter exams.

And, of course, he needed some time off to recover from the full moon, Harry thought to himself. But Professor Lupin didn't mention it, and he followed Lupin's lead.

He entered a period of mourning for his faithful broomstick, and postponed the thought of finding another one. How could he? The next match wasn't until after Christmas, but McGonagall was already putting pressure on him to pick a new one. As if there were anyone who would buy him a broomstick for Christmas! What few people he knew of who _would_ be willing to spend such money on him couldn't afford it—it wasn't as if he were best friends with Malfoy, who could buy Hogsmeade if he wanted.

And speaking of Christmas, it _was_ coming, and right before it, another Hogsmeade trip. Consideration of Christmas, and how he ought to relate to it, had completely slipped his mind. He was more concerned about the solidifying form of a mysterious figure in his Foe-Glass, a coming, but unknown, threat. The instructions said that only a foe whose identity was known would have a distinct image reflected—everyone else was a generic shadow, warning of an unknown incoming threat. It was probably better than nothing, but he had to admit that he had already known that there was a threat coming. Still, he took heart, despite himself, from the fact that the figure did not in any way resemble Professor Lupin.

He looked through the photo album Hagrid had made for him at the end of first year, to familiarise himself with Sirius Black's face, and found that he had too little data to positively identify the man, despite all his mother's tales. But…Professor Lupin had said they looked somewhat similar, similar hair, at least (although Sirius had not been small and scrawny), and had rather similar attitudes. Perhaps he could use that…?

Mother said that Peter Pettigrew was the real threat, but Harry didn't even know if there were any pictures of him at all in the photo album—he hadn't noticed any that looked too much like Professor Lupin, after all, and neither Pettigrew nor Professor Lupin had been as close to Lily and James Potter as Sirius Black.

He'd just have to learn more. Perhaps Mother had photo albums upstairs…?

He slowly recovered from the disastrous match, easing back into his normal schedule, and trying not to think about Professor Trelawney's frequent predictions of his impending demise. There was suddenly quite a lot to think about. He realised he'd quite forgotten about Scabbers, and Hermione and Ron's ongoing feud over Crookshanks's designs, until, staring out the window, lost in thought, he happened to see an odd duo—a great black dog, and a much smaller, if unwontedly large of a specimen of a red cat, strolling together across the grounds. A stray, after all, then, he thought, and then frowned. Something about that didn't seem correct, but he had far too much else to think on.

The end of November approached, came, and went, before he had recovered enough to work on his patronus lessons, which was a shame, because between that, end of term, and the full moon, it meant that Harry would have to wait until next term to continue, and he knew how desperately he needed them. He understood as he hadn't, properly, before.

He and Hermione spent much time poring over subjects in the library. Hermione was working on Buckbeak's case. Harry wished he could help, although he rather resented the fact that he hadn't seen Hagrid outside of lessons since the first week; for some reason he hadn't thought _Hagrid_ would treat him as a little kid. Besides, he had his hands full, researching occlumency and information on Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew, whilst making up the work and classes he'd missed, practicing the occlumency he'd already learnt, reproducing what he could of the Patronus Charm, studying for the end of fall term exams, and trying to reassure Ron that he was not about to keel over.

He could use a break from it all. There was only so far he could spread himself before he began to crack under the pressure, and such thoughts were not good to have.

The last exam was on the seventeenth—two days before the Hogsmeade trip, and with it out of the way, he could relax somewhat. Finishing off with Potions was not the ideal way to end the semester—it meant that the tension that comes with tests naturally was stretched taut as a bowstring, because no one was looking forward to a test with Snape, bar the Slytherins. Despite this, he did not sleep in the next day, instead getting up to go back to the library.

Really, he deserved the break he received the day after that (Sunday the nineteenth, the day of the Hogsmeade trip). The Twins had never seen fit to give him a Christmas gift before, let alone an early one, but he had to appreciate the sentiment. Rather odd that they would choose him, of all people, but they were a bit quirky, and probably had their reasons. Perhaps they sensed his restlessness. Perhaps they knew he would put it to good use.

Perhaps they were just hoping he'd use it to sneak into Hogsmeade, and hadn't put thought into what he'd do with it after that. They could be inscrutable, at times, and he knew better than to take everything they said at face value. Nonetheless, he slowly realised that he seemed to have earned their respect, at some point, and that it was paying off, now. The tale of how they had _acquired_ the Marauder's Map was a gift all on its own, and had him grinning so hard that his mouth hurt. His jaw was rather tighter than it should be, he reflected. When had he last relaxed at all?

"Sometime before the Quidditch Match of Doom", seemed to be the answer. Back before Wood had grown restless and snippy and prone to stalking the common room as a tiger waiting to pounce (or like Crookshanks, which was essentially the same thing). Back before Ron had taken to watching him like a hawk to make sure he didn't overexert himself, and Hermione hadn't spent _all_ of her time either studying, in the library, or studying in the library. Back when he'd had something he could _do_ about the dangers he knew he was about to face—skills he could teach himself, knowledge he could acquire, and things were not quite so much of a dead end.

Even his visit with his Mother had been full of tension. She'd still been sewing together the last of the tapestry, although she looked much better than she had the last time he'd seen her—as if she'd gotten some sleep. And she'd shared _some_ information, to try to help him find Black and Pettigrew in the album. This year was crescendoing awfully fast.

He couldn't believe it at first, watching the lines spread out from the point of impact, thin veins of black ink, a calligraphist's level of finesse displayed in how the lines divided up the rooms of the castle, never a moment's confusion as to whether _this_ was a room or a corridor or a storage closet, except for a room on the seventh floor marked only with an exclamation point. Four thick black walls surrounded it, attracting his attention, but there was little time to devote to wondering about it, when the Twins were instructing him on the use of the Marauder's Map.

Harry stared at the calligraphy above the map, the little introduction followed by the title, all in green ink, and thought that the map had probably been made by slytherins. He did not, of course, say this aloud. But slytherin was notorious for its dismissal of rules (unlike the ordinary gryffindor), and besides that, green was a slytherin colour.

It was also, the part of his mind he used to disavow (although now he was much more on the fence, what with how he was aware that it had used knowledge he would otherwise claim he didn't possess, to pull him back together) gently reminded him, one of Loki's signature colours. Loki, who was the God of Mischief and Lies.

_But that can't have any __**relevance**__,_ he told that part of his mind, mystified. Sure, the map claimed to be "a guide for magical mischief-makers", but that didn't mean that they'd ever even _heard_ of Loki, let alone knew his signature colours. Wizarding Britain was Christian—as if anyone could forget _that_.

This was, however, the most intuitive part of his mind. Was it possible? He wished he knew where prophets came by their knowledge, yet again, but that did not seem to be a subject covered in Divination this year, or in any other class at all.

The Twins left, with a cheeky grin, and a wave. Or, rather, with a synchronised pair of grins and waves that most people would have trouble differentiating from double vision.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the map, considering the whole matter. It was rather strange. It was also his only chance of visiting Hogsmeade this year—or, more like, before he reached age of majority. The lure was incredibly strong. The only wizarding settlement in Britain? A variety of shops, including a bookstore that sold only wizarding books, and a sweetshops that would be dead useful in surviving dementors? The mysterious Shrieking Shack, haunted by an entity so mysterious that the best experts hadn't been able to identify _or_ exorcise it, which had mysteriously vanished, nonetheless, twenty years ago? He admitted to being intrigued. But, perhaps more than that, he didn't trust himself alone right now. He needed his friends, although he'd feigned indifference to the whole thing, and claimed he'd be just fine on his own (Ron had bought it, for once).

He stared at the one-eyed witch, watching his tiny representative, vague and formless as an unknown enemy in a foe-glass, stand there, outside the statue, and tap it with the wand that was little more than a tiny black line, and say, "_dissendium_". Harry followed its lead, and climbed down into a secret passage.

Sometimes, he forgot just how amazing of a place Hogwarts was. Things like this, its strangely wondrous mysteries, reminded him of why he considered it his Palace-on-Earth. He hardly even noticed how dark and dirty the place was—and a quick _lumos_ took care of the former well enough. Not that there was that much to see, down here, except for the path weaving to and fro.

He stopped at the other end, and put on the invisibility cloak (no sense in risking being seen, after all). Time to _relax_ and have some fun.


	64. The Reason Why

**Chapter Sixty-Four: The Reason Why**

He should have known better than to think that his visit to Hogsmeade would be stress-free fun. He didn't even have a chance to visit the Shrieking Shack. He'd had to have Hermione and Ron buy anything for him—and first, he'd had to ensure both of their silence. He would tell them about the Map later, where the coast was clear.

There were so many students here that it was more suspicious for him to wear the cloak, and he'd therefore taken it off, feeling horribly exposed. He remembered, then, Lupin's warning about the dementors, which he'd been too eager to heed before.

Then, Ron had pointed out a sign explaining the presence of the dementors to Hermione, and he'd almost sagged in relief, realising that there was no threat of coming across them, as he would leave long before sundown—as would the rest of the students. Of course, that meant that Sirius Black was free to wander through the city as he pleased, if he had the skill Mother claimed he had. And everyone seemed to concur that he did.

Including the professors and Minster Fudge, whom they accidentally eavesdropped on whilst stopping in at the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer (which they'd brought back bottles of last time, but which was best served hot).

Well, the _eavesdropping_ wasn't itself accidental—although it might have been for other patrons of the tavern. Hagrid was not known for being quiet any more than was Thor. But Minister Fudge was determined to speak in a low whisper, and Madam Rosmerta, the proprietress and serving lady of the establishment, sensibly followed his lead. but that only served to make their top-secret conversation all the more interesting.

Hermione had noticed them first—they'd come in soon after Harry, Ron, and Hermione had. She tried to shove him under the table, but he ducked out of her reach.

"They can't find you here!" she hissed, urgency and fear thick in her voice.

"People tend to overlook me, when I wish to be overlooked," he said, ignoring Ron's rather odd expression at this admission. "And as long as I don't make any sudden movements. Madam Rosmerta might find my sudden disappearance suspicious, don't you think? Besides, if all else fails, I have the invisibility cloak."

He gave her a pointed look, and she took his point with a huff, crossing her arms and pouting. Then, she pointed her vine wand at a nearby tree, whispering, "_mobiliarbus_!" and a decorative Christmas tree helped to block them from sight.

He nodded to her, and they sat for a moment in silence, listening as the bartender brought the adults their drinks, and Fudge offered to let her join them. Just how _was_ public opinion of the minister, right now, anyway? But she took him up on the offer with an unreadable cordiality.

Once again, it occurred to Harry to question whether or not he could tell if someone were lying or not, when he couldn't see them speak. He suspected that he probably could—unless they were a Riddle, or a Dumbledore. Those were few and far between.

The adults sat for a moment in silence, before Rosmerta broke it: "So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" she asked, voice still quite polite, but suspiciously upbeat, as if putting on a show of cheer.

Or, he was overanalysing her.

"Sirius Black, what else?" asked Minister Fudge, sounding rather harassed, with a bite of impatience to his tone. But Harry barely noticed that. _Sirius Black_. They must think he as in the area, and that meant—

"Are you sure he's in the area, Minster?" asked Madam Rosmerta. She couldn't have made it more obvious that she was trying to be polite whilst still making clear her own disbelief.

Fudge sighed. "Quite sure. I suppose you've heard the recent news, about Black breaking in to Hogwarts last Hallowe'en—"

"I did hear a rumour to that effect, yes," Rosmerta admitted, sounding a bit sheepish. She must hear rather a lot of rumours, in her line of work.

"Did you tell the entire pub, Hagrid?" asked McGonagall, and Harry, despite his current umbrage at the way Hagrid refused to spend time with the trio anymore, nevertheless bristled at the assumption that Hagrid must have said something. But then again, who _would_ have had the opportunity?

He remembered the Map, in the possession of the Twins, showed how to sneak out of Hogwarts, but—

McGonagall didn't know that. Nor did Hagrid deny the accusation.

"The dementors have searched Hogsmeade twice already!" Rosmerta at last cried, a bit of actual feeling coming through despite herself. "It's very bad for custom!"

"Now, now, Rosmerta, m'dear. I know it's hard, but think of what they're there to protect you from!"

Harry considered the merits of holding his breath, but decided that lightheadedness would not help him to focus. He had a hard enough time of it, despite having encountered no dementors—real or otherwise—since the quidditch match. They'd done extensive damage, and his soul was still regenerating soul stuff to replace what it had lost. But between Mother's best efforts, his own, and the Sorting Hat's, he was mostly coherent and functioning. Except when he got sidetracked, as he was starting to become now.

He felt restless and trapped, and more than a bit paranoid, itching to hasten to get back to the school before anyone could notice his absence. Why hadn't they gotten three bottles, and wandered Hogsmeade with them?

But then, he'd have missed the current conversation on Sirius Black, which turned out to be crucially important, as if life had finally decided to throw him a bone.

"Sirius Black," said Rosmerta softly, with an almost wistful undercurrent to her voice. "Do you know…when they told me, I could hardly believe it. Out of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, he was the last one I would have expected. I still remember him from his time in Hogwarts…he used to come in here all the time. If you'd told me then what he'd grow up to do—that he'd murder all those poor muggles, I'd have said that you had too much mead."

Fudge gave a bitter, sharp laugh. "The worst he did is not widely known."

"Worst?" she repeated, and he could picture her eyes widening at the promise of gossip. He sat up straighter, interested for far more personal reasons. This seemed suddenly a promising lead. "Worse than murdering all those poor muggles, you mean?"

"Indeed," said the Minister, and Harry's mind supplied a grave and suitably dramatic and pompous nod.

Professor McGonagall seemed to think it necessary to lead in. "You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta. Do you remember who his best friend was?"

Harry rolled his eyes, and glanced at Ron and Hermione. Ron was looking down at the table, arms folded, seeming deep in thought, but probably listening. Hermione, on the other hand, might have forgotten to breathe. Her eyes were alight, and she was very, very still. He considered standing up to poke her, just to see if she twitched. But that would almost certainly give him away. He glanced back at the tree blocking them from sight, as if he would suddenly gain the ability to see through it through sheer force of will.

"Of course, I remember!" cried Rosmerta, with a little laugh, with that sort of melancholy wistfulness that usually indicates the presence of nostalgia. "A worse pair of troublemakers I've never seen!"

Harry's eyebrows both rose at that—this was the first he was hearing of _that_. Funny how that had been left out of both Lupin's (rare) and his mother's (more common) reminiscences.

"Oh, I don't know," Hagrid chuckled. "I think Fred and George Weasley could give them a run for their money."

"You never saw one with out the other! The number of times I had them in here…they used to make me laugh. Quite the double act they were: James Potter and Sirius Black!"

Harry felt someone's gaze land upon him, but it was only Ron. He smiled, and nodded, and then raised a finger to his lips, knowing that Ron, always the impulsive type, was going to bombard him with questions—or at least ask the most obvious one.

McGonagall's first addition to this new topic trod a familiar path—James Potter and Sirius Black, the dynamic duo, far too smart for the good of either.

"Exactly. Sirius Black and James Potter were among the brightest students I ever taught—ringleaders of their little gang. They must have been among the brightest students of their year, at the very least, and their was quite a close-knit group. They were inseparable, as close as brothers. James Potter trusted Sirius Black above all of his other friends at school. And nothing changed when they left school. Sirius Black was best man at James and Lily's wedding. James even named Black Harry's godfather—he has no idea, of course, but you can imagine how the idea would torment him."

Harry trusted an incredulous raised eyebrow to be a temporary sufficient show of this statement's inaccuracy, particularly when Mother's explanation seemed more plausible with every word spoken. But, no, unless he'd forgotten the mention, somehow (and that struck him as unlikely), _somehow_ everyone seemed to have avoided mentioning that little detail of Sirius Black being his godfather. Something in his chest constricted at the realisation—growing up, he could have had a _home_, a family who loved him, not for his fame, but just for who he was, but it had been stolen from him by…something.

His gaze fell to the table, speculative. He took a swig of butterbeer, as if that would help. Perhaps he felt tormented, after all, but not for the reason McGonagall supposed.

"Because Black was in league with—with You-Know-Who?" asked Rosmerta in a horrified, yet eager murmur. Harry thought she was at the edge of her seat with interest in the tale. He frowned, resolving to analyse it later, and, for now, to just pay attention, and commit what he could to memory.

"Even worse than that, I'm afraid," said the Minister, and then paused. "Not many people know this, either, but the Potters were aware that You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore had spies in his ranks, you know, and one of them warned him that You-Know-Who was after the Potters. He told them to go into hiding, told them that their best bet was the Fidelius Charm."

The _what_, now? But it couldn't have been common knowledge that he'd somehow never encountered, because Rosmerta echoed his query, in much politer tones. Harry already didn't like where this was going. He was hardly aware that Ron and Hermione were listening, too.

"The Fidelius Charm is a complicated charm of protection," Flitwick said, in that special tone of lecture that only professors seem to have. "It involves the concealment of the whereabouts of an individual or individuals within a single, living soul.

"This Secret Keeper accept willingly for the spell to take, but once it has, the individuals protected by the charm can only be found by the Secret Keeper, and those whom _he_ informs of the location. The secret is unable to be extracted through any means, from standard practices like veritaserum and legilimency, to less…savoury methods, such as threats, blackmail, and torture."

Harry shivered. He felt Ron's gaze shift to him, briefly, but all of them were listening very hard, now.

"You see, it is the ultimate defense. I would have said that Dumbledore was quite right to pick it."

"And Sirius Black was their Secret Keeper?" asked Rosmerta in a hushed rush. Something seemed to sink in Harry's stomach. This was it. How Malfoy knew, he might never know. But this was why Professor Lupin had once slipped, calling Black a "traitor".

"Of course. Potter told Dumbledore that Black would have died before he betrayed them… he said that Black was planning on going into hiding himself. But Dumbledore strongly advised against choosing Black…I remember him offering to be their Secret Keeper, himself." McGonagall's voice was sharp, as if warning away any enquiry on her last statement, and there was a distinct edge to her voice overall. She seemed to have taken over the Minister's tale, which perhaps made sense—they hadn't yet reached the point of his own involvement, if he was involved at all. Those who worked at Hogwarts were nearer Dumbledore, and therefore more liable to have learnt about what was going on, what Dumbledore planned.

_Why would he do that?_ Harry had time to wonder about Dumbledore's offer, before Rosmerta said, in a much slower, cautious sort of voice, "Dumbledore suspected Black?"

"Not Black _specifically_. But he was convinced that someone close to the Potters was passing information to You-Know-Who—a double agent, if you will. He didn't know it was Black, or he would never have accepted James's choice."

"And Black betrayed them?"

McGonagall sighed. "Not long after they went into hiding, before rumours of their disappearance could spread."

"He was tiring of his role as double agent," Fudge said, with great certainty. "He was ready to openly declare his allegiance to You-Know-Who, with the attack on the Potters. But then, well, everyone knows what happened: little Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who, just when Black had shown his true colours. He had to run…."

"But you caught him," said Rosmerta, with a milder sort of certainty. There was a brief moment of silence around the table, and Fudge gave a very heavy sigh.

"I wish that we had. Sadly, it was Peter Pettigrew who found him—another one of Potter's little friends—he caught up with Black in an alley. We learnt the whole thing later, from muggle witnesses. We obliviated them, of course—" Of course. "They say he cried, 'Lily and James, Sirius, how could you!' and reached for his wand…but, of course, Black was faster. He killed Pettigrew and all the muggles within a hundred feet with one spell,"

Harry's heart forgot to beat. Breathing became unnecessary. Despite himself, he tried to pull the story apart, and put it back together again in a way that made sense. Here, at last, the first mention of Peter Pettigrew.

"Stupid boy, foolish boy, he was always hopeless at dueling! Why didn't he leave it to the professionals?" McGonagall blew her nose. Her voice was very thick. Harry rather suspected that she was crying. "I was often quite hard on him…I thought he could do better, if he worked harder…you can imagine how I—how I regret my harsh words, now."

They gave her a moment to collect herself, in which Harry somehow managed not to so much as stir in his seat. He hoped no one decided to poke him.

" And then do you know what he did next?" There must have been some non-verbal cue, or else this was a pause for dramatic effect, because the Minister continued uninterrupted. "He laughed. The Minister sent in a team of top-notch hit wizards to take him in. I was brought in, too—I was Junior Assistant at the Department of Magical Calamities at the time. I still remember the scene vividly—I dream of it, sometimes. Half the street blown to rubble, bodies everywhere, and in front of Black a heap of robes and…and a few…fragments.

"They gave the Order of Merlin, First Class, to Pettigrew's mother, and his finger in a box—the biggest part of him that they could find. I hope it was some consolation to her—obviously not ideal, but it might have done her some good, knowing her son died a hero. And Black just stood there, laughing his head off, as the Hit Wizards came to take him away. He went with them quietly, without a word. I can't forget that night."

"That stinking murdering _traitor_!" yelled Hagrid, and Harry started, despite himself, but no one was watching except for Ron. Harry was fairly sure he could feel all the blood draining from his face. He'd only seen Hagrid _this_ angry once before, but it wasn't even _that_. This was it, he realised.

"Hagrid, _be quiet_!" hissed Professor McGonagall in a loud voice. She was, after all, a tenured professor.

"I must've been the last person to see him before he killed all those people. Dumbledore sent me to get Harry to safety when he'd heard what happened. I was the one who pulled little Harry Potter out of the wreckage of his parents' house. I was about to leave when Black shows up, all white and shaking. And do you know what I did?"

"Hagrid, _please_ keep it down!"

"I comforted the murdering traitor! I thought he'd heard about what had happened, and had come to see how he could help! How was I supposed to know he wasn't upset about Lily and James—that it was You-Know-Who he really cared about? But he says to me, 'Give Harry to me. I'm his godfather; I'll look after him'. Insistent, he was. But I was there on Dumbledore's orders, and at last, he gave in. 'Take my motorbike', he says. 'I won't be needing it anymore.' I should've known right then! Black _loved_ that motorbike. What would he be giving it away for?"

_A motorcycle?_ Harry thought. For the first time in years, since he'd met Hagrid, he remembered the dreams he'd once had, of a friendly giant carrying him whilst riding a motorcycle. Then, was that _Sirius Black's_ bike?

Hagrid at last quietened, continuing on in a rather subdued tone, "Fact is, it's too easy to trace. He had to get rid of it. But what if I'd given Harry to him, eh?" The volume picked up again, and Harry winced. "I bet he'd have chucked him off that bike, halfway out to sea! His best friends' son! Ah, but when a wizard goes over to the Dark Side, there's nothing and no one that matter to him, anymore…."

Another moment of silence, as everyone digested this. Harry refused to look at Ron or Hermione.

"But he's mad, isn't he?" asked Madam Rosmerta, sounding tentative, for once.

Fudge sighed again. "I wish that I could say that he was. I imagine his master's defeat…unhinged him for a while, but I saw him just recently—a couple of weeks before he escaped. He seemed…normal. Even a little bored. He asked me if I'd finished my copy of the _Daily Prophet_, and if he could have it. Said he missed doing the crossword puzzles. It was unnerving, how little Azkaban seemed to affect him. And he was one of our most heavily-guarded prisoners, you know, dementors outside his cell day and night."

Harry shivered. How could _anyone_ not react to dementors?

"Then…what has he broken out of Azkaban to do? Is he planning to rejoin You-Know-Who?" asked Rosmerta, hesitant, as if she knew she were pushing her luck.

"I daresay that is, er, his eventual goal. But we'll catch him long before that can happen, never you worry," said Fudge, as if he didn't notice quite how nosy she was being. Perhaps it suited his public image, to seem the concerned Everyman with an ear for the average person's voice.

"I think, if you are going to have dinner with the Headmaster, you had best leave now," said McGonagall, in a neutral tone. Perhaps she thought Rosmerta was ferreting for information, or perhaps she had just noticed the time. Harry didn't need the reminder, to exacerbate…everything.

There came the sounds of them standing up, of them pushing their chairs out, and a burst of cold air signaled their departure. Everything was completely still at their table for a moment or two even after that, except for Harry taking another swig of butterbeer as if completely unperturbed, when already his thoughts were beginning to churn.

"_Harry_?" asked Hermione, peering at him, wide-eyed.

He glanced out the window, confirming that snow was still falling heavily from the sky. That minimised the chances that anyone would notice him.

Ron said nothing. Nothing needed saying. His brows were furrowed in evident concern, and he might not have unfolded his arms to take a drink this entire time.

"That was…informative," Harry managed.

Now, they were both staring at him. Well, what did they want him to say? They'd want to talk about this with him, but right now wasn't a good time, regardless of other concerns.

"Look…Ron, Hermione, give me some time to think over what I just heard. I need to get back to the castle. I'll think on the way. Thank you for today, for showing me around… I'll see you back at Hogwarts."

He left some money to reimburse Ron for the drink, and, before they could stop him (they seemed to momentarily immobilised by what they'd just heard), he had put the invisibility cloak back on, and slipped back out the door.


	65. Innocent

**Chapter Sixty-Five: Innocent**

He _did_ think about it during the return journey. He could have walked via the ordinary path—perhaps it would have been less suspicious, but the way through Honeydukes still seemed safer, and there was always a part of his mind that could give attention to such concerns. A part that insisted upon having a backup plan. Did he even know the external road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts? Was it somehow paved and clearly marked? He didn't recall seeing such before, and thus he doubted it.

His first action, after pulling off the invisibility cloak in an unoccupied bathroom, storing it safely away, and returning to Gryffindor Tower, was to pull out the photo album, yet again. Then, he flipped rapidly through the pages, relying on sheer luck to lead him to the page for which he sought. But the photo album was filled with pictures of his mum and dad, and pictures including anyone else were few and far between.

But the pictures of their wedding….

There it was. He'd looked at that picture more often than he cared to admit, trying to imagine what sort of person his dad had been, trying to understand what little he knew, to slot vague details onto the image and try to make a _person_ from those ingredients. Or he'd looked at his mother, trying to tell, once and for all, whether or not there were any reality to his dreams. And he'd looked through all of these pictures several times, over the course of the last few weeks. Somewhere, surely, he would find Professor Lupin, and Sirius Black. But if he hadn't recognised the former, whom he saw on a weekly basis, how could he hope to recognise a man he had no memory of ever meeting?

He removed the photograph, gently, from the four little corner-tabs holding it in place, half-expecting a secret message or something to lie beneath. That was, of course, absurd, but then, so was everything else that had happened this year. Or since he'd turned ten.

He closed his eyes, leaning back on his bed, and then thought that, as he had already pulled the photo out, he might as well turn it over. Sometimes, people wrote messages on the back.

And there was a note, indeed, in unfamiliar, rounded writing, full of soft edges.

_Hey, Moron!_ the note began, and Harry blinked. Was the person who had given the picture to Hagrid insulting him from afar? But, no, as he read on, he saw that this picture was third-hand, having been sent to the person who later gave it to Hagrid. Somehow, that seemed promising. In full, the note read:

_Hey, Moron!_

_I thought I'd sneak this photo into the replacement robes I gave you for Christmas. Clever of me, right? I heard the whole story about how Old Pus burnt a hole straight through the pocket of your robes, and the picture you always keep in them. I keep my copy somewhere __**safe**__, so I copied it and thought I'd give it to you as a replacement. I didn't take this picture; don't go accusing me of being vain, or something else stupid, sending a picture that has me in it to you. It's the exact same one you kept in your pocket because it "symbolised the bond among us", remember? Try not to get it destroyed, this time!_

—_S. B._

Harry didn't know what to make of most of it—was "Old Pus" some sort of scathing moniker for Riddle, or something? But if that were true, whoever had sent the photo to its recipient (a friend?) would probably have made a bigger deal about his friend surviving Voldemort's wrath. And, if "S. B." should stand for "Sirius Black"…well, it explained why the previous owner had been eager to give it away, and helped to narrow down the potential list of previous owners.

Not that it mattered who had received it. He or she was in the picture, somewhere—as was "S. B.".

Best man at his parents' wedding, he thought to himself. That was what McGonagall had said. He flipped the image back over again, and looked through the crowd, certain, this time, that not-yet-Professor Lupin and Peter Pettigrew were somewhere in here….

There! _That_ had to be Professor Lupin—the shape of the face was right, and the eyes, although the man in the photo looked far less world-weary and defeated than the man Harry saw in class every week. He had the familiar, warm smile, but it sometimes twitched into a surprisingly cocky smirk. As if he noticed Harry watching, he pointed in the direction of Lily and James, smiling.

Just how sentient were pictures, anyway?

Well, they couldn't hear, so they'd be no help finding Peter Pettigrew. Harry tried anyway, but Lupin's expression didn't change. Probably it was too much effort to give photos a _real_ personality, and the magical solution Colin Creevey had mentioned last year only let them have some idea of who was currently examining them. Mild legilimency, or a little parlour trick, the one about picking a card. Street magic.

He scoured the photo himself, until his eyes alit upon a figure he recognised, despite being confident they'd never met. Chubby and short, without being stout, he had watery, almost beady eyes, and unfortunately square teeth, with a long, pointed nose. Peter Pettigrew. Harry was certain of it.

His gaze flicked back to his parents, sure that Black would be nearby. One of the men in the photo turned his head to look directly at the camera, relaxing into a sort of languid grace, hands in his pockets, although Harry thought tuxedos weren't supposed to have those. He looked at the camera askance, and gave a broad smirk. Harry stared at that face, at eyes sparkling with joy and mirth, lips spread in a grin that said he had a joke that he was dying to share, short hair nevertheless fastidiously combed and very neat, unlike James's. There was a sort of disconnect between his dress and his attitude—he was _slouching_. Was that allowed at formal events?

This image struck a more powerful chord of familiarity with him than the brief glimpse he'd had of an immobilised Black on the morning news, at Privet Drive, or seen in the _Daily Prophet_. He could almost hear his voice, speaking indecipherable words, and, to his lasting surprise, his eyes filled with tears.

He knew (or could hazard a guess) why they looked familiar, why he could identify them. His mind was a jumbled mess now, and the dementors had drawn memories from his infancy back to the fore. He recognised them all—Black and Lupin and Pettigrew—because they'd been a part of his infancy. They'd been there. He'd heard Sirius's voice, although he didn't remember it. And Professor Lupin's. And Peter Pettigrew's. And he thought that the nudge in his mind that led him to his conclusion came from those scraps of memory. That, and perhaps experience of his own with being accused for things he hadn't done: _Dad! Harry set a snake on me! Dad! Harry hit me! Dad, Harry broke my new bicycle! The tyre's flat, see!_

He hadn't; he hadn't; he hadn't. And neither had Sirius Black.

Mother was right. Sirius Black was innocent.

* * *

"I _said_ 'he's innocent'!" he cried, rather at the end of his rope, after everything that had happened that day. "_Peter Pettigrew_ betrayed my parents."

Ron was rubbing his head as if he suspected that he'd damaged it somehow, or he might have heard wrong. Harry cocked his head, momentarily distracted by something stupid. It still happened. Was Ron's hair longer than usual? He hadn't noticed. He'd been thinking of more important things, but he suspected that having long hair didn't make it harder to hear. Especially if you kept it out of your ears, as he did.

He shook his head, and dragged his fatigued mind back to bear on the problem, even though he'd been going over it nonstop for the last few hours. He was missing something. He knew that much. He'd gone to the library, looking for more information, but for some reason, it hadn't had anything to offer. Hermione would have been appalled at the thought of books failing her. Harry was just annoyed.

And he was taking it out on his friends. He took several deep, calming breaths—the sort he usually instructed Hermione to use (he saw her eyebrows rise in recognition), and unclenched his fists.

"Just trust me on this," he said. It irked him to see that neither of them _did_ trust him on that. They wanted him to give a solid argument. The problem was that he couldn't.

"Harry," Hermione said, in a very gentle voice, as if speaking to a very small child. His irritation must have shown, because she flinched and withdrew, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm down again. She continued. It was very end-of-first-year. "You heard what they said: McGonagall, and Flitwick, and Fudge."

"Says the girl who thought Snape was out to kill me first year," he snapped, and she crossed her arms, ready to stand her ground. Ron was looking around the room, as if wishing he were anywhere else. Harry fixed his gaze upon Ron, the only neutral party.

"Look, just give him a chance, alright?" he asked, in exasperation. "Everyone deserves a chance to defend themselves, but if the Minister or professors find him—"

"It's the Dementor's Kiss. I remember; you told us," Hermione said. She did not sound as if she were even considering the possibility which, Harry conceded, was very sensible of her.

"Call it intuition—or call it reason. Look, everyone who speaks of Sirius Black says the same things: he was brilliant, they say; he was friends with my Mum and Dad (if anything, they'll omit this); he _was the last person I ever thought would go over to the Dark Side_. Doesn't that last clause suggest anything to you? That _absolutely everyone_ finds it incredible that Sirius Black was a traitor—but they still believe he is? Something doesn't add up."

"They must have their reasons," said Hermione, sounding a bit subdued, which meant he was making a tiny bit of progress. Ron was watching him, as if trying to figure something out. He felt a specimen in a zoo, even though he knew it was just Ron showing that he was…you know, _listening_. Precisely what Harry wanted.

But they were, all three of them, quite stubborn in their own ways. He sensed Hermione wanting to dig in her heels.

"Well, of course. Everyone has their reasons for everything. Hagrid was expelled because Riddle framed him for murder. I was the 'Heir of Slytherin' last year because I could talk to snakes. And absolutely anything that didn't go Uncle Vernon's way was liable to be _my_ fault, by way of magic. Excuse me if I don't feel like ignoring the signs pointing to Sirius's innocence!"

Sign one: his mother had told him so, in a dream. Sign two: everyone spoke highly of him before he left Hogwarts. Sign three: …there was a sign three, wasn't there?

He turned to the Foe-Glass, and studied the image continuing to form in it. Short, and somehow compressed, but vague, still, with robes hanging loosely off of it…but short hair.

Clearer than yesterday, not as clear as tomorrow.

"That is too short to be Sirius Black," he declared. Hermione shot him her most disbelieving look. Ron seemed to be considering. There was a thoughtful expression to him, as if he were silently weighing Harry's every word.

There was silence, as Hermione visibly calmed herself, and then, slowly, relaxed, heaving a great sigh.

"You're being an idiot. And you're not making any sense. I understand why. This year has been tough for all three of us, between my extra classes, and your…reactions to the dementors. Ron's had to try to keep both of us afloat. I get it. But it's almost Christmas, and I really don't want to fight with you, Harry. Let's just leave this for now, okay? We'll talk about this, later."

That was probably the best he could hope for, as he had no evidence, yet, to back up his claims. This was the risk of siding with your intuition—it rarely had _proof_, by definition. But he didn't want to argue with her, either, so he just nodded, and turned away.

* * *

The next day was the first _true_ day of Christmas Break (weekends don't count, for purists). Because they now had the middle of the day free, and because both Ron and Hermione had signed up to stay over the winter to keep him company (although only Ron was willing to admit this, the mother hen), they were free to go down to visit Hagrid at a time when he couldn't protest that Harry was endangering himself.

"I should ask him why he never thought to mention that I _had_ family—a godfather. Even if he supposedly is a Death Eater, and therefore evil, Hagrid should have told me. I hate it when people keep secrets _about my life_ from me!" he cried, with a bitterness that surprised him. But, it was absolutely true. Usually, however, Dumbledore was the culprit. But, Hagrid had known.

Was he imagining it, or did Ron look down, rather guiltily, at this outburst?

Nah.

Harry had meant to ask more about the photo album (he was not about to admit anything that suggested he had overheard yesterday's conversation), but a glance at Hagrid's tear-stained face abruptly refocused everyone's thoughts. Because the matter involved Malfoy, in Harry and Ron's case, and the life of an innocent and beautiful magical creature, in Hermione's, they volunteered themselves for the Great Buckbeak Rescue Mission. Harry privately suspected it was a hopeless task. Hagrid did have one thing very well put: the Ministry _was_ in Lucius Malfoy's pocket. And none of the Trio had the power to go against Malfoy in _that_ field.

"It would probably serve for sufficient distraction if I killed Draco for starting this whole mess," Harry snarled, shoving a book away across the table with more force than strictly necessary.

"But then, you'd get in trouble for murder," Hermione said, eyes wide.

"But it's not murder if it's Malfoy," he retorted. "And anyway, I think I could put up a proper defence, or make it look like an accident, or something. But I won't act until I can be sure of getting away with it, I suppose. Pity."

Ron seemed to have cottoned on that talking about killing Malfoy was nothing but a way of venting stress. Not the healthiest way, doubtless, but not a sign that Harry was about to go on a rampage, or murder someone. Hermione, however, disapproved even of that. Even if Malfoy was a nasty piece of work, she disapproved of such talk on general principle.

This did not make reading up for Hagrid's case any better. At least, if all else failed, _Hagrid_ wasn't taking the fall for this one. That was what Harry told himself, repeatedly, to take his mind off how important the situation was.

Ron tried very hard to be helpful, but the average book would never hold his attention. Harry took pity on him, and used him as a sounding board for ideas, instead. He worked much better, thus. He could even, sort of, take notes on strategies that might prove useful. He did not seem to realise what Harry was doing, which was fine by Harry.

For some reason, Harry was making swifter progress than Hermione through his books, but Hermione's information was more useful. It must be her ridiculous thorough methodicalness in play.

* * *

Christmas morning was far too bright. Snow had fallen the night before, and, as snow does, made everything look much brighter than it was. It threw copious amounts of light into the castle, far too early to deal with in the ordinary way of things. Harry knew that returning to sleep was pointless regardless of what hour it was, and rolled out of bed with a groan. He might not be training with the Patronus Charm for the moment, but he still was practising occlumency, and fake occlumency, and then subtle uses of the _other_ kind of magic—and not-so-subtle, when he could find time to himself. It all took quite a toll on his energy, and he refused to take a break for the holidays.

Regardless of the dementors and Sirius Black outside the castle, it was a perfectly ordinary Christmas—if you discounted the mysterious gift of a _Firebolt_ from person or people unknown. Hermione showed why it was important to somehow convince her of Sirius Black's innocence by telling McGonagall about the broom. When McGonagall confronted him, he knew he could have lied—she might even have believed him—but that wouldn't do well for his credibility in the future. He handed the broomstick over, instead.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he could check for such curses well enough himself, by now.

But he didn't. He was still silent on the matter of the _other_ magic. He didn't know what to think of it, and wished that he hadn't had to wonder about it today. Christmas Day was a very bad day to question these things as it was—as a religious holiday, the entire matter still got tangled up in his head, in a way he'd yet to untangle. The same questions of years past resurfaced in their original forms. He hated this new tradition of asking the same questions on the same day, year after year. He'd almost given his metaphysical uncertainty the slip, and then Hermione had, inadvertently, recalled it to mind.

Which meant that, for once, _Harry_ was the one not speaking to _Hermione_. He made pretence of having to study for Buckbeak's case, and review all the varied magics he was currently using to defend himself in general (Patronus, occlumency, Foe-Glass, that was to say—or at least, that he was _willing_ to say). Hermione knew that, in actual point of fact, he was angry with her, but she only knew the half of why, which did not bode well for her making amends.

But they were, all three of them, too stubborn. She refused to admit that she might have erred—which, in spirit, she _hadn't_—and Harry refused to overlook her unilateral action (even if it was on his behalf), or the way she'd dredged back up old insecurities.

The good thing was that she had waited until close of day before doing this, which meant that he didn't spend the entire day driving himself mad with unanswerable questions. (_Will you __**still**__ insist that these questions cannot be answered?_ said the part of his mind that was making this complicated to begin with. He'd half a mind to go back to ignoring it, again. But it was the most promising lead on proving Black's innocence—indeed, the only reason he believed in it, himself, and thus….)

Ron showed prudence by trying to mediate the conflict, which did not avail him well. He would probably have sided with Harry, anyway, given Scabbers's declining health. Hermione's awareness of this did not help matters, at all.

"Take Harry's side!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. "You always do!"

This did not seem fair to Harry, as Harry could think of several instances in which Ron had not, in fact, taken his side over Hermione's. But he knew better than to point this out to _her_. Hermione rarely cried, which made him suspect that she was, in truth, having a small nervous breakdown, anticipating their return to classes. It wasn't _his_ fault she'd taken so many.

His own state of fatigue and overwork were at least due to forces out of his control.

* * *

Harry had had plenty of time to practice with the Firebolt before quidditch season resumed. He had been unsurprised by the "all-clear". Hermione, by contrast, was wringing her hands, and looking wretched. But Christmas was far removed by now, and Harry quite missed speaking to her about books. Not to mention that work on Buckbeak's case was difficult to accomplish with the team divided, thus. It was like that saying about the right hand and the left hand.

Hermione made some very tearful apologies, and Harry had, as gently as possible, admitted that it was mostly not even something she'd knowingly done wrong, and Ron had finally relaxed, with his two best friends no longer at odds with one another. They'd almost had another fight when Harry finally told them about the Map, but Hermione seemed to remember his reaction to the loss of his broomstick, and listened to his counterargument for why he needn't hand it in.

Gryffindor defeated Ravenclaw after start of term, which put Wood in a slightly better mood. Harry had followed his previous, disastrous strategy of not actively seeking for the snitch, to much better effect, this time. Cho Chang had enough skill not to fall off her broom, or crash into the ground, when Harry pulled out of his dive at the last second, which was just as well. And Malfoy, and not Harry, was punished (by McGonagall, of course), for pretending to be a dementor, with the assistance of living stilts Crabbe and Goyle. Harry wouldn't have used the Patronus Charm, except that he remembered that there always seemed to be a moment of calm before dementors started sucking the happiness from people, and that that was the only instant in which he would be reliably able to act. Better safe than sorry, even if the use of a wand during a match was worth a penalty.

There was no penalty.

Wood was teary-eyed, but beaming 'round at them, come end of match. He clapped Harry hard on the shoulder, saying, "I knew you'd come through, Harry," which was much better than when he'd visited Harry in the Hospital Wing during Harry's convalescence to tell him that he "didn't blame him at all".

Katie Bell caught Harry's eye behind Oliver's back, and rolled her eyes. But she, too, was smiling. Last time, there'd been occasion, but no opportunity. This time, there was absolutely no need for the reserves. Of course, they still needed to do extraordinarily well in the final match—there were a lot of variables that Harry had trouble keeping straight—but they were still in the running, which boded well for the health of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team as a whole.

All in all, things were going well. Harry could _almost_ overlook the growing clarity of the Foe-Glass shadow that he checked nightly. He was unsurprised to find that it bore a striking resemblance to a thinner, more ragged-looking Peter Pettigrew.

It was just Hermione who still wouldn't listen.


	66. Traitor

**Chapter Sixty-Six: Traitor**

The celebratory party for the victory of Gryffindor over Ravenclaw lasted late into the night. Harry was exhausted, anyway, both from the match, and from all the practice he put into training himself to resist the effects of the dementors. He would probably have liked to have gone to bed much earlier than he had—he had that wary paranoia around him that made him back into corners and flinch at loud noises—but, as the guest of honour, it wasn't permitted.

Thor, remembering that Loki had never exactly been fond of parties, himself (despite dealing with them much better), wished that he had the authority to order everyone to leave his younger brother alone, and let him _rest_. McGonagall, as it turned out, was obliged to do this, instead.

Perhaps that engendered a certain restlessness, introspection, pensiveness. Perhaps, it was responsible for the return of another odd dream. Once again, he stood in his old bedroom at The Burrow, not doing anything in particular, except trying to decide what to do. That was when there came another knock on the door, which opened, but only when he said, "Come in".

A familiar figure entered, and Thor ran his hands through his hair, which was blond, again, and long (or what humans considered long for men, at least). It was back to the same old story; Ron and Thor, the second meeting.

"How's it going?" asked Ron. "How's Harry?"

The first statement held too much slang to make much sense for Thor—even if it turned out to have come from his own mind. But, he understood the second one.

"He is… unwell. Recent developments have left him frailer than I am accustomed to seeing him. The dementors are a particular threat."

Unsurprisingly, Ron didn't seem surprised by this news. He didn't even ask for clarification. He didn't ask "What dementors?". He only nodded, as if this were all expected. This did not help at all in narrowing down what he really was—a projection, a piece of subconscious, a displaced spirit come bearing warnings of things to come? It was difficult to know how to treat "him".

Instead, he said, "It's tonight, I think. The moment of reckoning. Maybe even the one I warned you to brace yourself for; I dunno. It was today, wasn't it? The match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Harry caught the snitch, and everyone in Gryffindor breathed easier. Except for Harry: he was thinking of other things."

Uncertain how much the events Ron thought of matched those he had witnessed himself, Thor nodded, and then thought back over those words. "'Moment of reckoning'?" he repeated, turning the words over, slowly, in his mind. "What—?"

"Do you think you're helping Harry, keeping your secret from him? Don't you remember how he reacted when he learnt that Hagrid knew about Sirius Black, and had never told him? I think you may have run out of time to tell him on your own terms. It may be too late to save him."

There was a fatal finality to his words, and Thor surged to his feet, despite his earlier uncertainty, because _how dared_ anyone to suggest that he give up on his only brother?

Ron forestalled him, saying, as if he could read Thor's thoughts (and maybe he could; who knew?), "I'm not saying that you should just give up on him. I'm saying that _he_ is unraveling, and all around him, truths are being uncovered. Yours will probably be exposed soon, too. If you aren't the one to tell him—do you think he'll trust you ever again? You'll lose him. And then, he'll lose himself. You've seen it; you know I'm speaking the truth. He _needs_ your help; he's convinced himself he's not strong enough on his own. Maybe, it's even true. So, have you decided? Will you tell him?"

He wanted to. He couldn't deny that he'd always wanted to, but that thought, the thought of keeping Harry safe, had stopped him.

As it had stopped Dumbledore, perhaps. Harry didn't resent Dumbledore, did he? But, he hardly had the power to sever all ties with the headmaster, and if he did, it would be through resigning from Hogwarts, giving up his friends, returning to the Dursleys—all greater sacrifices than tolerating someone who had let him down. Was it mere tolerance, then?

Why hadn't he thought about this all along? Why hadn't he decided, already? But, in this realm, time moved so swiftly, and so many things happened in rapid succession; he'd never get used to it—

"No, huh?" asked Ron, shaking his head. "I really had high hopes for this one. But, you make the same mistakes, over and over again. You know it, or I wouldn't be able to say it. You must be the ultimate masochist. But, maybe what I've said has helped you see things more clearly. You need to make a choice. Choose well."

A low, rumbling noise filled the room, coming from outside, and Ron turned back to look through the open door. His brow furrowed in concentration.

"It's on your end," he said, turning to Thor. "Something's happening in the Waking World. You need to get back there."

And just as Thor was about to protest that he didn't know _how_, Ron drew a wand from his jeans pocket, and cried, "_Rennervate!_"

And he woke up.

* * *

He awoke to the darkened dorms, to complete silence. He was unable to pinpoint anything that might have made such a noise—or any noise at all, for that matter. He slid back the curtains hanging around his bed with great care, trying to make absolutely no noise.

Someone was kneeling in front of the cage in which Scabbers was kept. It was on the far side of the room, up against a wall—the only place there had been space for it. He must have forgotten to lock the cage door in tonight's excitement. That was how Sirius Black had managed to open it without the key.

He snatched the wand off his bedside table, rolling out of bed, and to his feet, all in one motion. He was confident that he could get to Black before the man could flee, or wake the entire tower, if Black tried to threaten him.

Harry's words rang in his ears: _He's innocent! Remember last year, when I was the "Heir of Slytherin"? Just give him a chance!_

_Give him a chance. Give him a chance._

Ron Weasley was supposed to be human, but he wasn't. If it all came down to it, he was confident that he could take Black down, alone.

"Stay where you are," he ordered Black, in a low voice, so as not to wake anyone else. It was his absolute quietest, but he knew that, but for his extreme fatigue, Harry would already be awake and moving. What he would have done, Thor couldn't know, but Harry was the lightest sleeper of them all, the most sensitive to noise. After that came Thor himself, which was a good thing. Neville could outsleep the dead, or however the saying went.

Sirius Black whirled around, eyes wide, already looking for escape routes. Thor was already approaching him, trying not to show just how little he understood what was going on.

Black was after _Scabbers_? Or, why _else_ would he be hovering over the cage in the middle of the night—there was no mistaking a rat in a cage for a boy.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, maybe, he noted that the man's first impulse was to flee—and not to attempt to silence his opponent, who was, to all appearances, a child. Either way, he risked Ron shouting a warning. Perhaps he thought it best to do as he was told.

"Just let me take the rat, and I'll leave," Black said. His voice was hoarse, and thick with some unknown emotion. His eyes seemed to shine in the dark. He was shaking. "Just let me go. I promise not to harm any of you, if you'll just let me go without calling for help."

"That is _my_ rat," Thor thought to say. "I believe I deserve some sort of explanation. What is your purpose in coming here?"

Black glanced around the room, clearly on edge, as if expecting dementors to come swooping in at any second.

"I'll explain to you," he decided. "If you agree not to call for help. But not here."

Thor did not back down an inch. Harry believed this man. But, when it came right down to it, it wasn't even Harry's inexplicable faith that was staying Thor's hand. He couldn't help thinking of another time, another situation, other explanations for which he should have sought.

_Why ask now? Why __**care**__ now?_

_I always cared—_

_But you never __**listened**_.

"Harry believes that you are innocent of the crimes of which you are accused," Thor said, looking for a reaction. Black's gaze snapped, as if automatically, to the bed in which Harry lay, still asleep. Then, he'd known where Harry was. And Black's actions—going to the cage, leaving all the beds alone, was the first evidence Thor had seen that Harry might be right.

"I will hear you out, as Harry asked of me," Thor said. There were very few mortals who were able to fight him on equal footing. None of them (or at least, none of the ones he knew) were here. "What is this location, of which you speak?"

Black frowned, shooting him a puzzled glance, as if there were something about Thor that he were trying to identify—something he recognised. But at last, Black shrugged, hands in his pockets.

"…It's a top-secret room my friends and I found by accident. On the seventh floor," he admitted.

"And how do you intend for us to reach this room, without being seen?"

Black grinned. "Do you know the Disillusionment Charm?"

* * *

And that was how, five minutes later, Thor found himself sneaking through the castle in the middle of the night, yet again, risking expulsion, or arrest, yet again, all to protect his younger brother.

_Have you decided whether or not you will tell him?_ he remembered the externalised Ron Weasley saying. It was yet another thing to think of. He couldn't help thinking about it, even despite the need for focus that came with sneaking through a place under intense guard. There was a reason S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers knew better than to send him on missions requiring subtlety.

_You're running out of time._

"In here," Black hissed, as if hearing something even Thor couldn't. Perhaps paying attention to some other sense than hearing and sight. They hid in an empty classroom, waiting for Peeves to pass, and then waiting a bit longer.

And thus, it went. They spent the next several minutes sneaking through the castle corridors, only to occasionally have to hide—always with a fair amount of notice—in any room that happened to be nearby.

He was sure that the Disillusionment Charm had worn off before they reached the seventh floor corridor, with its blank stretch of wall, and an unpromising picture of dancing trolls. His eyes narrowed, suspecting a trap, but Black held out a hand to forestall any objection.

"I know there's nothing here _now_," he said, his voice slightly less scratchy, but still quite hoarse, as if from disuse. "That's what makes it such a great secret, after all. All I have to do is pass in front of the door three times, thinking of what I want, and…voilà!"

A door shimmered into existence in the wall. Thor stared at it, barely seeing Black flash him a smug grin, as he slipped inside. That smirk looked rather incongruous, and fairly disturbing, on Black's gaunt, emaciated face, but it also served to soften some of those hard edges. There was a spark of life in his eyes that hadn't been there when he'd first appeared. Wary of the possibility that this was a trap, Thor followed.

The door vanished, and he tensed, half-expecting an attack.

"Easy, there," Black said, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "I just want to make _sure_ no one interrupts. It would be awfully suspicious to anyone in the know—and I know at least one of your professors knows about this room—if this door were to remain visible in the outside hallway."

He crossed his arms, and sat down on a plush, red sofa lying a bit further into the room.

"Is this where you have been hiding?" Thor demanded.

Black frowned, crossing his legs. "No. I've been hiding in the Forest, mainly. No one who values their own life goes in there unarmed."

He grinned, as if that were a joke. Thor considered telling him about the last two years. It sounded too much a challenge, and he had never been able to resist those.

But, Harry needed him. He shook his head, and refocused, with great difficulty.

"I suppose, to make sense of my actions, I'll have to tell you a bit of a long story—how we all got here," Black mused. "But, I have trouble remembering it all…the dementors took some of it from me. Remus would remember more, but I can hardly ask him to join us here. He thinks I'm a traitor."

"And I am not convinced of your innocence," Thor said. "Tell me what happened, to your mind. Prove your innocence. I have said that I would hear you out. I am a man of my word."

Black's eyebrows rose, again, but in the backs of his eyes flickered a strange, keen, intelligence, as if he noticed something amiss that he couldn't quite put a name to. But then, he just laughed, throwing his head back.

"How eloquent! You speak better than most kids your age," was all he said. "Well, I think it might make things a bit less tense if we introduced ourselves. You already know who I am: Sirius Black, infamous alleged mass-murderer, and escapee of Azkaban. But, who are you, and how do you know Harry?"

Thor would have said that this was _his_ place to ask questions, but for the strange, wistful tone that crept into Black's deliberately light voice toward the end of his question. It couldn't hurt to answer.

"My name is Ronald Weasley," he said, and Black nodded. "Harry is my adopted younger brother."

It was very, very strange, that something he said could be both completely true, and completely false, at the same time. The stuff of madness.

Black's eyebrows rose, again. "…I see," he said, and then fell silent, looking down, but raising his eyes, and turning his head, to keep Thor in sight. "I suppose you want my story. I'll save the best of it for later, and tell you what you need to know. I'm sure I'll be telling the story twice, after all. Harry deserves to know, too. I never thought I'd have the chance to speak with him…not after all he's heard of me. I thought he'd kill me if we ever met face-to-face, and not give me a chance to explain, and I had to live, at least long enough to get rid of the traitor endangering his life."

He spat the last phrase, as if it left an acrid taste in his mouth, which was twisted into a snarl, an expression that looked even more grotesque on his almost skeletal face. Anyone else would likely have been terrified.

Black leant back, folding his arms over his head, the picture of calm and relaxed, but there was something—an underlying tension in his posture—that told Thor that Black was ready to move at a moment's notice, unarmed though he was.

"Well, I suppose I'll start at the beginning, just to give you an idea. You're from a pureblood family, so you'll probably have heard of mine. Slytherin dark wizards, the lot of them—believed all that nonsense Voldemort spewed about pureblood supremacy, all of it. They raised my brother and me to be the perfect, muggle-hating heirs.

"Only, I didn't buy it. When I came to Hogwarts, I got sorted into gryffindor, and my mother…didn't take it well. But, I didn't care, because, for the first time in my life, I had friends. True friends, who believed the same things I did, and who stood by me, no matter what—barring a time or two when I did something exceptionally stupid. I've always had my moments of stupidity. Most smart people do—their intelligence just means they're less likely to see the flaws in their own plans. I fell prey to that, too.

"My friends and I, we decided to become _animagi_—you know what that is? Yeah, I thought so. McGonagall's a cat. Anyway, it's damn hard to do, you know—thrice hard for the underage, and the Ministry keeps a close eye on those making an attempt, and forbids it to anyone underage. My dear old mum wasn't about to give me permission, and my dad was almost as bad as her."

He rolled his eyes, as if exasperated, but Thor could still hear the bitter hatred in his voice. It was a creeping, familiar sensation, listening to Black. It put him in mind of a few exchanges he'd had during the Chitauri Invasion—only he couldn't help thinking Black seemed rather justified in his bitter ire. Something, perhaps that familiar wary carelessness so familiar from Harry, suggested that Black was glossing over the worst of his parents' actions—and why should he not?—and that the truth was a harsher, more violent matter.

"It took us _years_ to figure it out. But, in the end, we managed it—well, most of us. Even Peter Pettigrew," he spat the name, his face twisting into that snarl again, and the arms at last unfolded behind his back, as he leant forwards. "My best friend, James, could turn into a stag. But Peter Pettigrew—" he leant forwards, to whisper the next words, "—is a rat."

He leant back again, folding his arms behind his head, as if that were all he were going to say. One eye cracked slightly open, watching Thor, ready to move. It took a moment for the implication to sink in.

"Do you mean to tell me—?" Thor began, but apparently Black had just wanted him to start to speak so that he could interrupt.

"I'm saying that your pet rat is my _ex_-friend. The traitor, Peter Pettigrew."

"But, how would you be aware of the existence of Scabbers at all?" he asked. If Black _hadn't_ happened to finally regain the strength to break out of Azkaban to murder Harry, then _why_ had he come to Hogwarts? How could he hope to find a rat, even assuming it remained on the island of Britain?

Black gave a careless shrug. "Minister Fudge gave me a newspaper a few weeks before I escaped. It told me all that I needed to know."

And he reached into the pocket of his tattered robes, withdrawing the article in the _Daily Prophet_ announcing the winner of the five-hundred galleon draw. There was a strange disconnect, seeing himself in the photo, before they'd gone to Egypt. But there was Scabbers.

"Lost a toe, see?" asked Black, tapping at the relevant paw to catch Thor's attention. "Cut it off himself. I tracked him down to some alley in a muggle neighbourhood. I underestimated him—he was always the slowest among us, physically and intellectually, but this time, he'd outplanned me, and he was quicker on the draw. Drew his wand, blasted the streets to bits, killed a bunch of people, and then, in the chaos, cut off his own finger, and fled into the sewers with the other rats. He'd framed me nice and good."

Another, sharp, bitter bark of a laugh. Thor had heard the like before. It was the laugh of a man facing the weight of the world, the world turned against him, with nothing left to lose, adrift and friendless. The man on the brink. He'd had to pull Harry back from that more times than he cared to recall.

The corner of one side of Black's mouth tried to draw up into a grim smile, but it failed. "And that's all the proof I can show you without Peter here. Are you convinced enough, yet? Shall we go get him?"

This time, a slight, mocking smile, full of bitter knowledge and regret. But, Harry was the one who could judge people's sincerity. He needed Harry, to properly evaluate Black's tale. Surely, two against one, with Black unarmed—if Thor thought he could face Black alone, he'd be doubly ready, with Harry as backup. Or perhaps, he was just thinking again of the old days.

"Yes," he said. "Stay here, and I will bring him to this room—him and Harry. I am confident that Harry will hear you out. Wait for me here."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" asked Black. "You know how to get into the room." Then, his gaze seemed to soften. Something new—perhaps a nascent gratitude, or concern—shone in his eyes. "Be careful. Make sure that Peter has no idea what he's walking into. He will do whatever it takes to flee. Keep your guard up."

Thor reminded himself that Black had no idea whom he was speaking to, and just how unnecessary such a warning was.


	67. The Truth Comes Out

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Truth Comes Out**

Harry was never so tired that you could get close enough for an attack. The moment his bed curtains began to slide aside, he was beginning to sit up, his eyes snapping open with alarming speed. He was reaching for the wand he kept in a protective case under his pillow when he realised just who had disturbed his rest, and relaxed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and stretching, as if nothing had happened.

"You do realise that it's the middle of the night, right?" he asked, cocking his head, already wide-awake and scrutinising the scene. He kept his voice down, out of courtesy to those still sleeping.

"I believe that you might consider this more important than sleep," Thor began, with greater confidence than he felt. But Harry _had_ said that he believed Black to be innocent—and he might well be right. On that note, "Sirius Black infiltrated the Tower. He wishes to speak with you."

Whatever Harry had been expecting, this must not have even occurred to him. He blinked, twice, and then glanced around the Tower. "Ah, I see. That's how he eluded the dementors. He learnt how to turn invisible."

There was that same, careful levity to his sarcastic tone, that Thor had just heard from Black. He frowned, concerned. Had he misunderstood?

"Ah…no," he said, deciding that it was probably best to answer the unspoken question rather than to try to decipher the inner workings of his brother's mind. Attempts had never availed him, before. "There is a secret room on the seventh floor. I told him that I would return with you and Scabbers."

This statement, as Thor well knew, was very odd, taken out of context. But Harry just paused, and said, "I see."

He pulled a folded up piece of parchment out of his pocket, reached under his pillow for his wand, and tapped it, muttering, "_I __solemnly__ swear that I am up to no good_. If you took the time to put on proper clothes, then you can afford me the same dignity," he continued, as the Marauder's Map began to fill with inky lines. His tone was much the same, disinterested drawl, only louder, as when he had addressed the Map. Before Thor could think of what was happening, the curtains had closed back around Harry's bed.

A few moments later, the curtains drew aside, again, as Harry reached into his other pocket to withdraw the invisibility cloak.

"I think there's room for the three of us," he said, with a small smile. "Even if you mean to keep Scabbers in his cage."

That last statement was almost a question, especially with Harry's head cocked at an inquisitive angle. _Well, do you?_ it silently asked.

"That seems a worthy decision to me," Thor said.

Indeed, he was planning to keep Scabbers in that cage for good reason: Harry had been quite thorough when accounting for likely problems, back when they had first bought the cage. He'd wanted one that could withstand even whatever latent magic Scabbers might have—and thus, it couldn't be locked or unlocked save for with the key—not even from within. At the time, this was just to ensure that Scabbers could not simply magic himself into unwitting danger. Now, however, it served a better purpose.

Harry raised an eyebrow as if he wished to ask _why_ Ron Weasley had now decided that the pet whose freedom he had so often advocated needed now to be kept under lock and key, and perhaps what relevance he had to the situation at all, but his only other action was to spread the invisibility cloak around the two of them, and to lead the way back down the stairs.

"I suppose Hermione will miss this entirely. Even if I _had_ figured out a way to enter the girls dormitory, I think she needs her sleep."

This was not a pointed comment about Thor interrupting Harry's much-needed sleep, but such comparisons were inevitable.

Despite a decreased need for caution, now the invisibility cloak was hiding them from sight, they nevertheless made their way, in an infuriatingly silent, careful manner, through the empty halls of Hogwarts.

They were halfway to the seventh floor room before Thor realised that Harry was still leading.

"Harry—" he began, only for Harry to silence him with that familiar reproving expression. It was very difficult to keep talking with that expression leveled at him, and he sighed, hoping that, somehow, Harry knew precisely what he was doing.

* * *

Harry lifted up the Marauder's Map, staring back and forth between it, and the blank stretch of wall. The room surrounded by thick black lines _had_ to be here, somewhere. Behind the tapestry of the unfortunate wizard who tried to teach trolls ballet seemed an improbable choice—it was set too high in the wall for someone to climb into it, thus. And something about how thick those lines were…it gave Harry the suspicion (justified or not) that the room was capable of changing its size. Truly, one of Hogwarts's greater mysteries. And _Ron_ had found out about it before he had!

Ron, who at last understood the difficulty.

"All you need do is walk this stretch of floor three times, thinking as you do of what you require. As I have seen the room, perhaps you would allow me."

The corridor was empty. Harry glanced back and forth along it—but it was quite far out of the way—and then lifted up the invisibility cloak, pulling it off all three of them.

Ron, after a moment's pause, handed over Scabbers's cage, which perhaps made sense—who knew what thoughts might run through the mind of a rat as to what it required? Harry watched with narrowed eyes as Ron, to all appearances, just paced back and forth before a blank stretch of wall.

Then, he stared, momentarily stunned, as an ordinary-looking wooden door materialised there. His seventh sense _hummed_, trying to catch his attention. He ignored it.

_And how much faith will I place in my dreams?_ Harry asked himself. _Ought I to believe that Sirius Black is innocent—or has he cursed Ron?_

He had read, some, about curses that confused or manipulated the memories of their victim. It was a possibility, but slight, to Harry's mind. And he'd known, one way or another, that the ordeal—the annual threat—would inevitably force him to confront Sirius Black.

Ron retrieved Scabbers's cage, first, and then opened the door, pausing to glance back at Harry, still standing there. Harry shook his head roughly, as Ron held open the door, that he might enter first. He had to remind himself that he trusted Ron. Ron would not send him into certain danger.

Across the room, a figure in tattered black robes leapt to his feet, crying, "_Harry_!" in a voice filled with desperation, and something else, something Harry couldn't identify. Harry drew the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, in an instant, and was pointing right between the man's eyes. Despite some inner turmoil, his aim was level and steady.

He stepped forward to allow Ron to enter, barely aware that he had, as he stared, unblinking as if the man were a hippogriff, at Sirius Black.

"You are going to answer my questions," Harry announced, "and you are going to answer them honestly."

Black glanced over to behind Harry, at Ron. "I thought you said that he thought that I was innocent?" he asked, voice high-pitched in incredulity. It broke, in the middle.

It took all of Harry's self-control not to whirl around to face Ron, at this. "You _told_ him that?" he demanded, hand beginning to shake. He frowned at the offending appendage, and concentrated on stilling his hand.

"I thought that you _did_," said Ron, clearly at a loss as to what was going on. "Have I said something wrong?"

The worst thing was that he knew it was utterly unjust of him to fault Ron for this, and, while he was no hufflepuff, he liked to think he at least dealt reliably with his friends. He sighed, instead of answering.

"Never mind that, Ron," he said, continuing to move forwards, towards Black.

"Will you answer my questions?" he asked Black, wand clenched tight, but aim steady. "Or must I assume that you are, in fact, guilty?"

"Fire away," Black said, his voice a hoarse croak, as he fell back onto the sofa behind him. "Just not literally, please. I have no weapon with which to defend myself, you know. You might go easy on me."

With a thrill of foreboding, Harry realised that he couldn't tell whether or not Black was telling the truth. It would come down to the evidence.

"Please, sit down," Black said, as if welcoming them to his house. He spread his hands in welcome, and gestured to the seats situated around a coffee table, reminding Harry of Mother's living room, despite himself. Black seemed unaware of the weapon trained on him. Harry and Ron slowly sat down on the sofa, Harry never taking his eyes off of Black.

"I see that you brought the rat," Black continued, glancing at Ron. "That will make things much easier. Thank you." The corners of his mouth stretched into what was almost a smile.

Harry couldn't help casting a puzzled glance at Ron, but it was gone before he returned his gaze back to Black. Ron set the cage on the table, and as Black's gaze flicked to it, he drew his own wand, pointing it at Black.

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt either of you," Black said, crossing his arms with a huff. Then he smirked. "I think the door has been there long enough."

Harry whirled around in time to see the door through which he'd entered dematerialise. Instantly, he was alert and wary once more, head whipping back around to face Black.

"You—" he began, and Black waved one arm in a careless, dismissive gesture.

"Just to make sure no one interrupts," he said. "And to prevent certain _animals_ from escaping."

His glance at the cage before him was sufficient explanation as to whom he meant by "animals". Black leant forward, peering intently through the bars of the cage, but Harry barely noticed, feeling _trapped_, in a room with his best friend, sure, but also a man whose intentions remained unknown.

"I'm unarmed, you know," Black said, glancing up at him. "There's no need to threaten me."

"_I_ will be the judge of that," Harry snapped, in return. "Where is the door?"

Black cocked his head, considering that question, and shrugged. "I dunno. I guess wherever anything that's part of this room goes whenever it isn't _required_. This _is_ the 'Room of Requirement', after all. But if it bothers you, just think about it, and it'll appear. You're not _trapped_ here."

"Then neither is Scabbers," Harry pointed out, waving his left hand at the rat, who was squeaking madly, pushing against the bars of the cage. Black sighed.

"Only those who summoned the room can summon the door. He didn't have any part in summoning it, so—"

"Neither did I!" Harry snapped. He was half-inclined to say, "I'm leaving, and coming back through the door, myself!", but that felt a bit…silly. Ron had called the door this time. He trusted Ron. He trusted Ron.

Didn't he? Of course, he did.

"Oh," Black said. "Well, your friend has control of it, then. I suppose that makes sense. It doesn't matter, though, because the only one who's going to try to leave this room in a hurry is…what did you call him? _Scabbers_. You can go ahead and keep that wand leveled at me, but your arm might get a bit tired."

Harry glanced at Ron, and then at Scabbers, and finally at Black. How much did he trust his dreams? he asked himself, for what he did not realise was the last time.

Well, when he thought about it, they'd been his sole reason for believing Snape's innocence, in first year, and that had turned out to be true. He slowly lowered the wand, but kept it in his hand, ready to move at a moment's notice. He felt Ron's gaze land on him, and saw the other wand lower, out of the corner of his eye.

"What do you want with Scabbers?" asked Harry, subdued, feeling rather silly and childish. And if Sirius Black _weren't_ the bad guy, and _cared_ about him…had he ruined it? He thought he had overreacted, but a room without a door was a prison, and prisons naturally sent his mind scattering into dangerous depths. "Why bring us all here? Did you betray my parents, or are you innocent?"

He gave voice to his disconnected thoughts with a weary apathy. There was no threat to sharpen his mind, to make import of what he thought and did. His mind still wasn't fully recovered—or that was his excuse. He didn't know, anymore.

"Well," said Black, gaze still fixed on the cage, "the answers to those questions all lie in a rather long true story. I brought you here to explain…in the hopes that I might earn your forgiveness. I didn't sell your mum and dad to Voldemort…but it's my fault that they died."

He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and the skin of his sunken face seemed to draw tight. Harry relaxed, slightly, hearing Black utter the name "Voldemort". Only Lupin and Dumbledore did that, as far as he knew. It was an act of defiance, of disrespect. It gave him some assurance, a measure of trust, in Black.

"How do you mean?" asked Harry, considering raising the wand again, after that confession. He felt torn.

"I as good as betrayed them…I convinced them to change Secret Keepers at the last second. I thought I was so smart—everyone always told me I was. I suppose that's just the peril of being considered smart—you're more likely to do incredibly stupid things, because you're so used to being right that you don't notice the flaws in your plans as well. I thought it was the perfect plan—a ruse! Voldemort was sure to go after me, would never dream they'd use a weak, talentless thing like—

"But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. When I first came to Hogwarts, I was sorted into gryffindor, and made three good friends: James, your father; Remus, your teacher; and…_Peter Pettigrew_. To help Remus deal with…his ailment—"

"I know Professor Lupin's big secret," Harry interrupted, with a shrug. Black glanced over at him again, finally, considering his words.

"How? How did you figure it out?" asked Black, seeming puzzled. "You're not as close to him as we were, and it took us a while—"

Harry shrugged again, as if it were no big deal. "Professor Snape assigned us an essay on how to recognise and kill werewolves. He treated Lupin with such vitriol that it didn't even take studying a lunar chart to note the regularity of his absences. And then, his boggart…." He shrugged, for a third time.

"Wait. Professor Lupin is a _werewolf_?" asked Ron, in a rather unreadable tone. Harry gave him time to digest the news, and didn't look at him. Black didn't seem to have heard, which was impossible; Ron had made no special effort to be quiet, and he was naturally rather loud.

"You're a very bright child, aren't you? Like your father," a fond, reminiscent smile crept across his face, softening the gaunt, haggard features. "Surely, quicker on the uptake than other kids your age."

Harry looked at the floor, but he didn't even notice what colour it was. "I've been told I'm precocious," he agreed, and then started, as he realised that it wasn't _he_ who had been told that. Was he humouring his intuition too much?

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Black dragged the topic back to relevant matters.

"Very well, then. To help Remus with his lycanthropy, the remaining three of us decided to become animagi. By the end of our fifth year, we managed it. Your dad could turn into a stag; I could turn into a dog; and Peter could turn into a rat."

Harry's gaze shot up at the mention of the stag, eyes wide. Oh. Oh. _Oh_. Then, _that_ was the reason for Lupin's reaction to his patronus. He almost missed the casual mention of Black's animagus form in the middle, but then the pieces fell into place for him. The dog in the stands at the quidditch match. The dog walking the grounds of Hogwarts after hours, with Crookshanks. Crookshanks, who must have let him into the Tower. He didn't know that animals could do that, but then…Ron had a point. Crookshanks was…unique.

And then his mind hit on the last phrase: Pettigrew was a rat. He followed Black's gaze as it returned to Scabbers, squeaking madly in the cage.

"You can't mean to tell me that—"

"The biggest piece of Pettigrew that they found, it's said, was his finger. But in truth, that was the _only_ piece of Pettigrew they found—that, and his undamaged robes. He shouted to the whole street that I'd betrayed your parents, cut off his finger, blasted apart everyone near enough to see the truth, and turned himself into his animagus form.

"He escaped, and then sought for a wizarding family—ideally purebloods, the only sort the Death Eaters respect—to keep an ear out for news of Voldemort's front gaining strength again. He was always a coward. He wasn't about to risk people finding out he wasn't dead until he had his master's protection again. After all—if he'd lived, what else might they have gotten wrong about that night?"

Black threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. It was not a happy sound, and it had Scabbers running in circles in his cage.

"There's a spell to turn an animagus back into his human form, you know. But it won't work in that cage, or I'm sure he'd have tried it by now. He doesn't want to be anywhere near me. He knows that I'm going to kill him, for what he did."

The only person Harry had ever heard speak _that_ casually of murder was him, himself.

Black's gaze shot to Harry's, again. "Your mum and dad were my best friends in the world. And Remus…I should have trusted Remus, but rumours of a traitor were running rampant through the Order—that's Dumbledore's top-secret group who fought Voldemort during the war. He'd been acting…different. Withdrawn, I suppose. When I look back on it, life can't have been easy for him, during the war. Dumbledore must have chosen him for some very difficult missions, and of course he couldn't talk about them. I regret it, now."

He folded his arms, rubbing his elbows through the tattered sleeves of his robes, as if to ward off a chill.

"They sent me to Azkaban. Straight to Azkaban. Dumbledore himself gave testimony that I was your parents' Secret Keeper, so they felt there was no need for a trial."

A bitter grin crept across his face. "I felt that I deserved it. All of it, right down to Pettigrew outwitting me—Pettigrew, the slowest of us, physically and intellectually, the last to grasp a difficult concept, outdrawing, and _outwitting_, me! It was hilarious, in a completely unfunny way. I went quietly, trusting in the Ministry to see justice carried out. Trusting in Dumbledore. I shouldn't have. Because of that trust, you were put in danger. Pettigrew was left unchecked. Only I knew that he was still alive. Only I could recognise him by his missing toe when I saw him in the paper. Remus didn't know. He came here, to Hogwarts, thinking that he would need to protect you from _me_."

He turned away from the cage again, to look Harry in the eyes. Harry found that he couldn't look away. "Believe me, Harry. I didn't betray your parents. I would have rather _died_ than betray them."

As ambient white noise, there was the frantic squealing of Scabbers in the cage. Black was one of those rare people whose truths and lies he couldn't read. But he could see the picture painted for him, how everything connected. It made more sense than the picture he'd had before. His hand relaxed on the wand, and he slipped it into the holster he kept in his sleeve.

"I believe you," he said, gaze landing on the cage. "But how did you escape from Azkaban? The dementors should have driven you mad in months; Professor Lupin said so."

Sirius shot him a bitter, crooked smile, that reminded Harry, with the force of a blow, of himself. He remembered that Lupin had drawn similarities between the two, all but told Harry that he thought them very similar, similar enough for confusion. But Sirius's matted, elbow-length tangle of black hair and his starved, sunken face made it difficult to even see him as human. He looked something out of a nightmare, all haunted and hollow and pale.

"I think the only reason I didn't go mad is that I knew that I was innocent. The knowledge…it wasn't a positive thing, like happiness, that dementors could suck out of me—it isn't a happy thought, to be innocent of your charges, and have everyone believe that you committed those crimes. But it was a thought that grounded me, kept me sane and knowing who I was. It became something almost of a mantra—I don't know if you've heard of those."

A chill stole up Harry's spine. He felt the weight of Ron's gaze, and turned to face him, and then had to turn away, before he could see just what Ron's reaction was. This was getting creepy.

"I—I've heard of them," Harry managed. He had to admit that he was shaken. Sirius's face softened into a look of concern.

"Are you alright, Harry? Dementors seem to affect you badly, too; I shouldn't have—"

"I asked," Harry said, emphatic. "Please, continue."

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. _The only way_—

_Shut up!_ he told that corrupted corner of his mind. Ron was here, and Sirius…he could become an ally, an anchor. If Harry could trust him.

_He broke out of prison. He broke into Hogwarts. He did two things considered impossible—just to protect __**me**_.

Sirius looked at him, as if unsure whether or not to continue, and then he sighed.

"It wasn't a happy thought, but it grounded me. Kept me sane and knowing who I was, so that when it all became…too much—" he swallowed, looking away, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing at his forehead. "—I could transform. The dementors can't see anything, you know. They rely on some sort of sixth sense to know where people are. They can sense emotions, but they could tell that my emotions were less human…different…when I was a dog, but of course, they thought I was losing my mind, same as everyone else. But, when I saw that article in _the_ _Daily Prophet_ that Fudge gave me—the one with the picture of your friend, and his _pet_—" the last word spat, naturally, "—I knew I had to do something. I was the only one who knew that he was still alive….

"I starved myself until I could fit through the bars, and swam as a dog back to the mainland. I couldn't resist checking up on you before I left for Hogwarts, although I think the sight of me might have alarmed you, somewhat."

A crooked smile. Harry gave him a small smile in return. "Perhaps a bit."

"And then I came to Hogwarts. I snuck onto the grounds as a dog, and have been hiding in the Forest ever since…although I did come onto the grounds once or twice, to make an attempt to break into Gryffindor Tower, and…and to watch you play quidditch. You're as amazing a flier as your father, Harry."

His voice was thin and crumbling with suppressed emotion. Tears glittered in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I convinced your parents to use Pettigrew as Secret Keeper instead of me. It never occurred to me that someone with so little to offer would join Voldemort. I thought I was being clever. And because of my foolishness—"

"We all make mistakes," Harry said, glancing back down at the cage.

"I came here to kill him. Now that you know the truth, it shouldn't be that hard. If I could just borrow one of your wands—"

"No," said Harry, in his firmest, flattest, most no-nonsense voice. "Absolutely not."

Black blinked, staring at him as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. As if stricken.

"But Harry, this piece of filth is the reason your family _died_."

"I know," Harry said, still so calm he rather frightened himself. "But death is nothing but the next great adventure. He doesn't deserve such… mercy." Somehow, he forced out the dread word. "Personally, I'd rather see him suffer. And there's no way to clear your name if yet another dead rat disappears from the Hogwarts grounds. But if we speak with Dumbledore on your behalf, and hand Pettigrew over to the dementors…."

"I could be free," whispered Black, eyes widening, as hopes he'd forgotten could exist rekindled in his heart. Dreams he'd thought lost beyond recall.

"And then, perhaps…if you wouldn't mind…you could tell me what you knew. About my parents."

Sirius's face tried to decide whether to smile or twist into an expression of purest sorrow and grief. The result was rather more grotesque than usual.

"I-I know it's early, and you barely know me, but…I just had the thought—if you wanted to, you could come live with me!"

Harry bowed his head, and looked away. "…I want to, but I can't. But that's a story for later, and we have to deal with the now. Stay here. Ron and I will alert Dumbledore. He'll listen to you. I'll see to it."

"Harry—" Sirius began, but Harry silenced him with a look.

"But first—"

Before Harry could finish his sentence, there was a flash of light, and the cage containing Scabbers disintegrated. Sirius Black had no weapons, but he reached into the wreckage, anyway, to grab hold of the rat. Before he could reach him, the form buckled and distorted, expanding rapidly, until a man stood in the place of the rat.

He hadn't been able to unlock the cage, or to transform while it was intact, but he _had_ been able to destroy the cage. And his first act was to lunge for Ron.

It appeared that they'd be having their end-of-year brawl a bit early.


	68. Make the Right Choice

**(temporary) author's note:** Well, I timed my posting here exactly wrong. I'll be even more radio silent than usual, and might be a bit late (or early) posting the next few weeks, given what time of year it is. Sorry about that. The next chapter is one I'd really been looking forward to, too.

* * *

**Chapter Sixty-Eight: Make the Right Choice**

Ron was quicker than Pettigrew, despite his shock. He was on his feet, and reaching to restrain Pettigrew, before the man could realise. Harry glanced at the familiar shape, the same he'd seen when he glanced at the Foe-Glass before leaving Gryffindor Tower. This was most assuredly the enemy, and most assuredly Peter Pettigrew. The last vestiges of his doubts in Sirius vanished. He hadn't realised that they were _there_.

"Stand still, and we will go easy on you," he said, trying to keep raw fury out of his voice. He understood Sirius's desire to kill the man. It was flooding him, now, too. "You dared to betray my parents to Riddle? My dad, who was one of your closest friends, and my mother, the greatest woman to have ever lived? Do you know what I hear when dementors get too close to me? I hear You-Know-Who murdering my parents! And you—_you_ caused that! Explain yourself! At least, tell me _why_!"

He had no memory of drawing his wand, but his grip on the polished wood was so tight that his knuckles had turned white and numb.

"Well?" he asked, into a ringing silence. "Did you at least have a good reason?"

Pettigrew looked around the room, as if seeking for sanctuary. _If you should encounter a wizard by the name of Peter Pettigrew…give no quarter_.

He remembered his mother's words. He would heed them. She was right about Sirius's innocence, and Pettigrew's guilt. And Sirius had, despite his keen intelligence, been tricked. Harry would learn from his mistakes. He kept a level aim at Pettigrew's head, so that the man did not dare to move.

"I know a hundred spells that could kill you, now that you are human again. You should not have transformed—you gave away your best defence."

Pettigrew swallowed audibly.

"You sold Lily and James to Voldemort," said Sirius, white and shaking as the night Hagrid had comforted him. The night his entire world had come crashing down, had burnt to ashes and rubble. "Do you deny it?"

Pettigrew was shaking violently. "I—I didn't mean to—! I was never brave, like you and Remus and James! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me to—"

_True_ that he was never brave. _False_ that Voldemort had forced him.

"Don't _lie_!" Sirius snarled, eyes glinting with flinty hardness. "You were the traitor—the spy who was passing information to him for _a year_, at least, before Lily and James died."

"You can't _force_ someone to reveal a secret kept with the Fidelius Charm. You would have had to tell him of your own free will." Braver men than Pettigrew would have quailed at the steel in Harry's voice.

"He was taking over everywhere! What was there to be gained by resisting him? I didn't know what to do! He would have killed me, Sirius!"

True.

"Then, you should have died! Died rather than betray your friends—as any of us would have done for you!" said Sirius, his voice suddenly so loud and so powerful that Harry wouldn't have been surprised if Dumbledore heard it, at the top of his tower. He was shaking with rage.

Pettigrew cowered, and took a step back. Sparks shot from Harry's wand—bright white ones, the byproduct of Harry's lack of control. He tried to force himself to think through this rationally, and remembered Ron, who had drawn his wand, pointing it at Pettigrew, with mounting fury of his own.

That never ended well.

Pettigrew opened his mouth to speak, and Harry shot him a glare.

"That sounds a confession to me," he said, forcing levity into his voice. He didn't know how to handle this situation at all. He couldn't afford to lose his temper, and could even less afford for Ron to lose _his_. "If I were you, I would shut my mouth, and do as I was told without protest. If your greatest fear is for your own life, that is. Look around you. Do you have any allies who would keep us from killing you? No. You've told me all I needed to know."

"This was easier when he was still in that cage—I should have thought, should've realised that he'd destroy it when he knew his fate was sealed. _Now_, how are we going to bring him in?"

"I have a map that we could use to sneak through the castle without being detected," he offered, and Sirius turned to him, giving Harry his full attention, again.

"A—a _map_?" Sirius asked, his tone unreadable. "It couldn't possibly be…" he murmured. Harry noticed that Pettigrew, too, had gone completely still, expression somehow distant, as if straining to hear something only he could hear.

Harry, unsure as to just what was going on, nevertheless pulled the Marauder's Map back out of his pocket, and Black's eyes flickered to the folded-up map.

"It is…that—that's the _Marauder's Map_!" he cried. A gleam in his eye—not a hard edge, but something like excitement—shone in them. "Ha! It figures it would come to you!"

Harry glanced at Ron, who looked to be thinking troubled thoughts. The anger that had filled him seconds before seemed to have gone without a trace.

Harry turned back to Sirius Black. "I think I may be missing something, here. You know of the Marauder's Map?"

"'Know of it'?" Sirius crowed. "I helped _write_ it. It was a group effort, although _Wormtail_ here didn't add that much." He kicked out at the dazed Peter Pettigrew, who stumbled and fell.

"See, now, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs—those were our nicknames in our school days. We wrought havoc in this school—official spreaders of pranks and mayhem…those were the days…. Some people even called us the Marauders."

_Vikings_ were marauders. _Pranksters_, not so much. But Harry didn't say that aloud. It was just another not-quite-innocuous oddity to this entire, twisted affair.

"Pettigrew is Wormtail—then…Moony must be Professor Lupin, on account of his lycanthropy—"

Sirius Black snickered, reminiscent nostalgia putting him in a much better mood, and nodded, muttering something that might have been, "_Professor_ Lupin…who'd have thought?" Louder, he added. "And your dad was Prongs."

He sobered up instantaneously, and, with a little shrug, tacked on, "And I guess you can figure out Padfoot by process of elimination."

Harry clutched the Map tighter. Suddenly, the gift became much more significant, knowing that his Dad had touched it, that this had once been one of his own personal projects. A piece of him seemed to remain behind, imprinted into it—in a rather different way from Riddle's horcrux, last year.

Pettigrew stood, on shaky feet, and everyone returned their attention to the most relevant task at hand—how to bring Pettigrew to Dumbledore without him escaping—they had a way to ensure that no one hindered their quest—and he knew that Snape, for one, was sure to do just that, regardless of justice.

But, how were they to ensure that he didn't escape? _Ensure_ it, where close quarters and a lack of door no longer served as sufficient barricades? A stunner would never last long enough, and would make Pettigrew dead weight. But, he was a coward. Unless he saw an opportunity for flight, he would come on his own...

Sirius Black was scratching his head through his thick mess of hair. Harry frowned, trying to think of what made sense. There must be some method that dark wizard catchers used that—

"I have a way," said Ron, in a level voice. There was an omen, a portent, in the way his head bowed. He looked…ashamed? Guilty? As if he had been caught, doing something he should not be doing (and it had always been Harry to expose him to such situations before). If Ron had a means, wasn't that a _good_ thing?

Ron said nothing more. Harry realised he was waiting for a reply, and that Sirius, the outsider in all this, was waiting to see what Harry said. It wasn't as if _Sirius_ had any personal connection to Ron—they'd met only earlier tonight….

"If it works, then what are you waiting for?" Harry asked, cocking his head inquisitively. He didn't understand Ron, sometimes. Ron glanced at him, again, and this time, seemed unable to look away, still facing Harry even as he bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Something shimmered into existence in his hands, and Harry's world ground to a halt.

He kept thinking that he could handle anything, but he couldn't. Probably, only luck had saved him last year, in the Chamber of Secrets, and this year at the Quidditch Match of Doom. He was physically and mentally exhausted, and emotionally a complete wreck, anyway. But he'd never imagined….

There was a roaring, rushing noise filling his ears, the sort of sound that accompanies being buffeted by a strong wind. His heart was racing. He ceased to notice anything that was going on—the world reduced itself to just him, and Ron, and those handcuffs. He'd seen those things before, somewhere. He was sure of it. But where? And how had they appeared in Ron's hands?

Ron's expression was nothing if not apologetic, but, after a moment, his gaze turned to Pettigrew. It was a good thing _someone_ was paying attention, because Harry had gone numb. He couldn't have moved if he tried.

_Where_ had he seen those, before? He was faintly aware of someone calling his name, but he was beyond turning to see who it might be. He couldn't handle this, he realised. This was too much. This was impossible. This was—

Probably just a big misunderstanding. He took a deep breath, only then realising that he'd stopped breathing. He was faintly aware that he was shaking.

"You okay, Harry?" asked a voice, hoarse and scratchy, and higher than usual with concern. He felt that he'd been turned to stone, but apparently he could move, because he managed to turn his head slightly, to see Sirius Black reaching out a hand, as Lupin had, as if he didn't quite dare to touch him.

"I'm fine," he said, automatically, his voice completely flat. _Show no weakness!_

"Harry?" asked Ron, just as concerned—if not more so, having had previous experience with Harry, when Harry wasn't in his right mind.

Harry managed to drag his feet over to the place where the door should have been, trying to think of what to do.

"Let's just go."

The handcuffs were secure on Pettigrew's wrists. Ron took a step back, studying his work.

"What are those?" asked Sirius. "Where did they come from?"

The most important question: _Why is Harry reacting thus to them?_ went unasked.

Harry paused to listen. He wanted answers to those questions, too. But Ron only shook his head.

"All that you need know is that they prevent the use of any magic. He will be unable to cast any spells, even should he somehow acquire a wand, and he will be unable to transform."

The nagging sense of familiarity intensified tenfold. Harry tried to ignore it, he truly did, but it made an incessant rattling in his skull. He stepped backwards, to Sirius, without knowing what he was doing.

"Here," he said, holding out his wand. "If someone comes to arrest you—if anyone finds this place before we return—you have some measure of defence."

He pressed it into Sirius's hands, and closed his skeletal fingers gently over it. Then, he turned and strode through the doorway in front of Ron and Pettigrew. He didn't want to look at them. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to remember.

But when Ron exited the room, and the door vanished, he found himself asking,

"Well, where _did_ you get those?" with great vehemence, a striking contrast to the emptiness within. "Will you tell _me_?"

Ron hesitated. It was one thing to deny a stranger, and another to refuse to answer Harry. He took shameless advantage of this fact. He needed answers. It was the only way to silence that incessant voice that kept trying to make something of all of this.

"My father gave them to me," Ron said, turning away from Harry. Harry's eyes narrowed. That was highly suspicious, but not false. His heart, for reasons unknown to, or unrecognised by, him, skipped a beat.

"'Your father'?" he repeated. "Your dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Is that what this is? An enchanted muggle item?"

"No." Ah. Now he'd hit the point of monosyllabic answers. Ron set off at a rapid pace, as if to cut him off. Harry ran to catch up, hands clutching the Map, but not looking at it.

Ron gave a haggard sigh, and turned to Pettigrew, who was listening, of course, but Harry didn't care. He winced. _Not now!_ he snapped at the corrupted corner of his mind, as if that had ever stopped it. He thought he heard it laugh at him, in response, and stumbled. No. That was just fatigue, and the overwhelming sequence of events that was the last twenty-four hours.

"Ron, _please_! Where did you get those?"

Ron paused, perhaps disturbed by Harry's sudden urgency, and turned to look at him, frowning. "Do you recognise them?" he asked, in a level voice that suggested that the question were much, much more important than it sounded.

Harry gave a helpless shrug. "They look familiar," he admitted, and Ron winced.

"My father gave them to me," he said, again, in response. "He believed that I might have need of them."

His _father_, noted some corner of Harry's mind, a corner that would not be silenced. It whispered louder in his ear: _Have you ever heard Ron speak of Arthur Weasley as his "father"? Does that not sound closer to the way you speak of Mother?_

Harry stumbled, and very nearly fell, but he caught himself against the handle of a door as they passed. Ron turned back to look at him, and then retraced his steps.

"Harry, what—?"

"Are you telling me that _Arthur Weasley_ gave you a set of handcuffs to bring to school, in case they came in useful?" he demanded, grabbing hold of Ron's arm, to pull himself back up, or to drag Ron down—he didn't know which.

He was dimly aware of Pettigrew, looking from left to right, down the long expanse of hall, with so many locked doors, and none through which he might escape. The hall was too long for him to run. He was stuck as a witness to the unfolding drama. Harry hated him for being there, even if it was against his will.

Ron's shoulders slumped. He looked…defeated. Resigned. "No," he said.

But Harry knew that he had the ability to tell when Ron was lying, and this was not a lie, but neither was anything else that Ron had said. He struggled to find an explanation, any explanation, even as the part of his mind that he had once disavowed lurked, triumphant, in its corner.

The part he'd called Loki. The part that thought it had an older brother, with access to magic unknown in the human world. The part that was strong.

_I can't handle this!_ he cried out to it, unsure when he'd come to trust that part's judgement _so__ much_.

_Then, you cannot deny the truth any longer. How poetic, that the God of Lies should lie __so__ well to himself…and for __so__ long!_

He didn't care what it said. He remembered the dream, the one with the Rainbow Bridge breaking all around, and how he'd detached himself, then. That was the only way to handle the here and now.

_Are you sure?_ asked that part of his mind, into the turmoil of Harry's thoughts. It almost sounded…worried. _Denial will no longer avail you. You must stand your ground._

Harry closed his eyes. _Later_, he begged. It was too much, for the moment. _Tonight_ was too much.

And Ron spoke, continuing his thought; unaware of Harry's internal dialogue, he laid the groundwork for the conflict to come. "You recognise it," he mused. "Then, I will tell you…I should have told you before. I understand that, now. But please, Harry, wait a little longer, until Pettigrew is arrested, and Sirius is safe. I will tell you everything…tonight. If you can wait that long."

Loki shrugged, managing to find something of mental equilibrium. "You're right. This is a more immediate concern. I will wait."

He didn't need to be told. He already knew the answers.

* * *

The next few hours were a blur, nonetheless—he was well aware that he needed sleep as much as the next person. He knew that he was mortal. He knew that he had limits. He knew that today had, one way and another, taxed him to those limits. It helped to explain the blurry rush that seemed to comprise the next hour or so.

First, they'd had to find Dumbledore. Loki had wanted to bypass the security gargoyle altogether, but Ron decided to try a handful of wizarding sweets that sounded vaguely familiar, and Loki exercised the self-restraint not to open up his seventh sense and try to see if he could find a way to take the gargoyle apart. Or something less conspicuous.

After that, they'd realised that, it being the middle of the night, the headmaster was not in his office. Rather than be made a fool of, he'd turned to Fawkes, remembering his mysterious appearance into the Chamber of Secrets, last year.

"What do you think, Guy?" he'd asked. "Will you help us to find him?"

Fawkes had disappeared in a torrent of flame, and returned, in like wise, a few minutes later, with Dumbledore, who wore a bright purple dressing gown and grey slippers. The moment he saw the occupants of his office, his usual twinkling cheer was replaced by a tired gravity. That was, most likely, a good sign. It meant that he was taking this seriously.

Then, of course, they'd had to explain the events of that night, and convince Dumbledore of the truth. By the end of the tale, he looked as if he'd aged a hundred years or more. But, he believed them. He offered to watch over Pettigrew while the two of them retrieved Sirius Black. To accompany them, and to protect them, if need be, he called in, of all people, the obvious choice: Professor Lupin.

Watching Professor Lupin being summoned was an educational experience. Harry—and by now he'd adapted more or less well enough to just be Harry, again—had had no idea that you could summon through the floo network (presumably they had to be nearby), just by saying their name, and throwing some floo powder in the grate. Presumably, they weren't called away against their will, or Professor Lupin wouldn't have been wearing his shabby everyday robes. He presumably had pyjamas, or something, that he wore to bed.

Dumbledore then gave a brief explanation of current circumstances, and Professor Lupin glared at Pettigrew, and looked seconds away from banging his head into the headmaster's desk, covered though it was in sensitive instruments. His face had gone very pale, making the deep bags under his eyes stand out all the more.

"All this time, I thought that Bl—that _Sirius_ betrayed Lily and James. How could Sirius ever forgive me for doubting him? For not trusting him? I should have known better. He always hated pureblood politics, and his family—"

"There is no other that I can trust to retrieve him from the secret room. I would certainly not presume to send Severus on such a sensitive mission, lest certain…_biases_ lead him to act in ways I'm sure that he would later regret."

Professor Lupin visibly steeled himself for the coming confrontation, and then glanced around the room. He looked seconds away from asking whether Harry and Ron _had_ to come with him, but then deflated, seeming to know the answer.

"It wasn't your fault, Professor," Harry said. "Pettigrew pulled the wool over _everyone's_ eyes. Sirius has spent the past decade blaming himself for not trusting _you_. I think it would do you good, to have a bit of a chat with him."

For both he and Professor Lupin had both immediately recognised this mission for what it was. Harry suspected that he and Ron would send Professor Lupin into the Room of Requirement, and then, finally wander off to some out-of-the-way corner with the Marauder's Map, looking for somewhere where they could be sure not to be disturbed, and Harry would _at last_ get answers.

That was pretty much exactly what happened. After a brief, tense exchange of words between Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, the two seemed to come to an understanding, with a teary Lupin drawing Sirius Black into a tight hug filled with guilty apologies. It was very long-lost-brothers-reunited, and put Harry in a precarious mood that had yet to decide on which end of the balance beam it should fall.


	69. We Can Work It Out

**Chapter Sixty-Nine: We Can Work It Out**

It had taken a few minutes to find a corner of the castle that no one seemed to frequent. Dawn was a couple of hours away, now, and neither had any idea how long this would take. Harry was tired, every limb in his body seemed to weigh a ton, and it was almost impossible to keep his eyes open, but he knew that this could not be postponed. He would show his commitment to learning what was truly going on by bearing through it.

He ended up using the same unlocking spell Hermione had in first year (_alohomora_) on a locked door in the third floor Charms Corridor, because…why not? Though different, the setting put him in mind of many other things, stirring up memories of the night he'd spoken with Mother in the physical world, having pulled her from the Mirror of Desire, and of the night he'd faced off against Quirrell, fully awakening the side of his mind that…well, perhaps he truly couldn't shut out, anymore.

It had been different, before, when he could tell himself that it was just an irrational, deluded part of his mind that didn't know what it was talking about. But it had helped him to repair his soul when the dementors had rent him into a hundred pieces, and its advice was, while often questionable by standard morality, nevertheless insightful.

It had been different, before so much evidence had been given that what Mother said, was true. It had been different before Ron had spoken as if…as if….

As if what? He didn't like to think that he was running from _anything_ (like Pettigrew) out of simple fear. But, what other explanation was there that fit everything he _knew_ except that Ron was somehow a part of all of this, too? Perhaps one of the characters from his dreams. Perhaps the one he'd sought for the most fervently.

He refused to sit for the coming conversation. He probably should—there would almost certainly be a number of impossible revelations, if the rest of tonight was anything to go by—but he remembered what that not-so-distant corner of his mind had said: _Stand your ground. Show no weakness_.

And for some reason, he'd started listening to it; might as well see this through to whatever bitter end life had contrived for him, to make up for giving him so great a gift as his godfather (_family_) back.

"Ron," he said, to catch his attention. Ron, fidgety as ever despite the early hour, turned back to face him. "You said that you would explain—about those handcuffs. Where they came from."

He was too tired to beg, too tired to lie, too tired to fight. Maybe he'd fought the truth for a very long time. Perhaps, he'd known all along.

"It is a long story," Ron said. "One that I would do justice, if only I knew how. And difficult to know where to begin."

"Start at the very beginning," Harry said, thinking of _The Sound of Music_. Then, he frowned. That was a very ambiguous, vague request. And as Harry didn't know the story himself—

"I shall start at the end," Ron decided, in typical Ron fashion. "And I shall go back and explain more, after. The end will suffice: it is the most difficult to speak of."

Harry wasn't sitting, which apparently meant that Ron wouldn't allow himself such luxury either.

"It ends with death," Ron pronounced. "The death of too many whom I held dear. My mother died, and then my younger brother died, not even a day later. I had no experience with such grief, and thus I sought out the counsel of friends with no familiarity with those whom I mourned. My mother and my brother were dead, and I had brought death upon them—unintentional, yet nevertheless, it was my burden to bear. I once swore that I would protect him with my own life; instead, forsworn, I led him to his death. And though that was not a promise broken lightly—" he paused, and Harry suspected he was thinking of that first conflict with Malfoy, years ago, "—I nevertheless broke it, to great cost. And when I came home, finding that nothing took that sting away, the heartache, the pain, I turned to my father, who knew secrets I will never be able to understand, and _begged_ him for any recourse, a way to undo what had been done."

"Begging doesn't suit you," Harry said. He had said it before—last year, he thought, and it was as true now as it was then. He couldn't imagine Ron begging, even though he had seen it himself. But there was something else strange, because what relevance did this have? Even the part of his mind that he'd shoved aside for so long couldn't see the way it all _connected_.

Ron managed a grimace, but refused to look at Harry. "He told me that I might be able to save them…but that I must go back in time, be born again, live a different life, as a different person. Give up everything I knew, and everything I loved. If I were willing to sacrifice everything, he said, I might succeed. I might be able to change what had happened, for it would then be the future, and not the past."

Ron officially sucked at explaining things, Harry decided, because this story was getting incredibly convoluted and hard to follow. And wait a second: go back in _time_? He'd heard of means to go back in time that had been studied, but the only even somewhat stable means was the use of time turners, closely regulated by the Ministry, and they still wouldn't be able to send you back _years_, or to enable you to be reborn…in another body….

Oh. The two puzzle pieces clicked together, and his stomach churned. He bit his tongue to keep from interrupting. He had nothing to say, anyway.

"I agreed," Ron said. "Perhaps I wished even to forget—to set aside that grief and shame, the remorse of what a foolish choice had cost. I agreed, and he used powerful magic to send me back in time…and I was reborn as Ronald Weasley. That was not my name before, but it is now. I am accustomed to it, now. For ten years, I knew no other name."

Harry closed his eyes. This sounded all too familiar, now. Ten years. And on the tenth year—that was when _he_ had started having the dreams.

"When I turned ten years old, I remembered everything. That suffering and pain that for a decade I had been able to set aside, came rushing back. I remembered, and I understood, why I was here, in this world, and what I must do. I sought for my brother—my younger brother, who had died—and I found _you_. I knew you at once—how could I not?—but I kept my silence. Father told me that you would likely remember nothing. And while you remembered nothing, I had no desire to burden you with that pain. To protect you, I resolved to face what came, and to protect you on my own."

"Because I've had _such_ an easy life," Harry said, with a sharp, bitter laugh. "Between Riddle and the Dursleys, it's a wonder I only died _twice_."

_Because he was protecting you. __He sacrificed everything __**for you**_, protested a voice that, with a bit of a shock, he realised was the voice he usually thought of as his own mental voice. Why did it seem foreign, now?

Ron looked hurt. "I only meant—"

"I had dreams when I turned ten, too, Ron," Harry said, leaning forwards, his voice low, and far too calm. Ron, sensibly, took a step back. But then, in true gryffindor fashion, he set his feet, despite his sudden pallor and shortness of breath, and stood his ground.

"What manner of dreams?" he asked, sounding wary, as if he already knew the answer. Whither the conversation was bound.

"I dreamt of a far-off land," said Harry, wistful in remembering the early days of his dreams, before it all had soured. "Perhaps I could ask you some questions, and see if anything sounds familiar."

He still remembered why he had gone to the library to research to begin with, years ago. The research that had led him to learn all manner of things he'd prefer not to know, and warned him of the sour turn his dreams would later take.

"Go ahead," Ron said, with evident misgiving. Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head, and searched for a fairly vague question, a way to lead in, without being quite as alarming as he was tempted to be.

"Your father," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "Was his name 'Odin'?"

Ron took another step backwards. There was a moment when Harry thought he might not answer, and that was important, because if he refused to answer this question, then he would stay silent on the others. But if he answered this one…it committed him to answering the rest. The moment of truth, ironically.

And then, Ron spoke, just a single word. All he said was "yes", and that was all that he needed to say. As with Mother on that long-ago night, a one-word answer that left open no other interpretations.

Harry's heart decided to stop beating for a few moments. It couldn't be true. It couldn't all be true…could it? But this, here….

But there was still room for doubt. There was almost a sort of vindictive pleasure to be had of stripping himself of his own delusions.

"And your mother," he whispered, thinking of Mother in her cottage, and barely able to force out the words, even in a whisper. "Was her name 'Frigga'?".

Only one of the books in the library had used that name. Here, he was narrowing things down considerably. And Ron, who could not lie, who could only even say that he was _Ron Weasley_ because that was in a sense _true_, was almost merely a sounding board, a means of proving what he already knew, in a way that he could no longer deny it.

"Yes," said Ron, and his voice was tight. Harry refused to look at him, refused to see how similar they could be in their grief. _Show no weakness_.

"And your brother," he said, desperation creeping into his voice, despite his fatigue. He had to ask the question. It had plagued him for _years_. "The one who died. The one you say is _me_—and you did say that we were the same person, didn't you? Was his name…was his name '_Loki_'?"

And there it was: the question was in the air. It couldn't be taken back, now. There was a strong urge to see Ron's reaction, that he refused to humour.

The silence seemed a lot longer this time. Harry lost his internal battle, and glanced over at Ron. Ron looked…stunned, as if this were not going at all as he'd expected, and beneath that, the ever-present grief, that Harry had recognised, and then dismissed as after-effects of the dementors.

"…Yes," Ron said. Only, his name wasn't Ron. Harry was now absolutely sure of that, but he asked anyway.

"Then you…you're _Thor_!" he said, and this was not even a real question. "You…_you_—!" Words failed him, as they so seldom did. "Three years you knew, three years since we first met, and for _three years_, you let me suffer alone. I thought I was going _mad_. _That_ is what came of your attempts to protect me. Do you never _learn_?"

He'd thought his energy spent, but the sheer injustice of it all flooded him, anger reawakening his mind, draining the strain from his sore muscles. He straightened up, marching forwards to confront Ron, to confront _Thor_, who, after all his questioning Mother, had been here all along.

"And especially after what I said about Hagrid and Sirius Black—that I hate it when people keep secrets from me—especially when they concern _me_, directly! You would think that you would learn from your father's mistakes!"

Ron's eyes were very wide. It was clear that he wasn't fully processing what he was hearing.

"I _trusted_ you!" Harry cried. "How am I _ever_ to trust you again?"

He needed time alone. He needed to think. He needed to leave. Unlike the Room of Requirement, he could not be shut in, here. Even there, he might have been able to access his seventh sense and _force_ the door to reappear.

And somewhere beneath, the horrible suspicion that the anger was only a front, a way of avoiding the question that he now had to ask, but which Ron couldn't answer: _Who am I_?

"You…remember…?" Thor asked, voice somewhat subdued, which was saying something, for him. But Harry just remembered a similar conversation, years ago, with Mother. He knew the next word, and didn't want to hear it.

"I'm leaving," he said, cutting Thor off, his voice now completely level and calm.

But in three strides, Thor had blocked the door, arms folded. "You will hear me out," he said. "Tell me truly that I have ever mistreated you."

Harry had no great desire to damage the school grounds. He would have to find a way to force Thor to move out of the way, so that he could open the door and escape.

"Just let me go," he said, his voice far too level, as it was far too often, nowadays. Anger still surged through his veins, but it didn't show, as it hadn't last year, when he had given it free rein, in the wake of Hermione's petrification.

"Forgive me, little brother. I never meant for you to suffer alone. I thought that you were happy—at least, as happy as you could be, given factors beyond my control. I was only trying to protect you. But I admit that I was wrong. You are right. I should have learnt from Father's mistakes. I should have told you. I underestimated you, as I always have. And for that, too, I am sorry. I only wished not to lose you again. But I see that I erred greatly, and you have never been one who favoured forgiveness and lenity."

Harry wanted to be angry, truly he did, but a memory crept into his mind, the vague sentiment of his own opinions, back when his dreams had only been dreams, and he'd blamed Loki for tearing the family apart. That thought, that Loki was ungrateful, that he didn't appreciate what he had, that he didn't appreciate that his family loved him. That it didn't matter that they weren't related by blood. And that he, Harry, would have given _anything_—

"How much do you remember?" asked Thor, clearly hesitant, and there was an answer ready, but Harry swallowed it, tore it apart, and tried for something _new_.

"I remember everything, except for what happened after I fell. That's all in pieces…. I remember nothing after the Invasion. Perhaps, that answer pleases you."

He couldn't keep the bite from his voice, but it was not as sharp as it might have been. Progress.

Thor sucked in a deep breath. "…'Everything'," he repeated, eyes wide, and reached for Harry, as if he couldn't help himself, but Harry flinched, thinking of the Dursleys, and, eyes downcast, Thor withdrew.

"Then it was all for naught, after all. I am sorry, Brother. I meant only to help you. Forgive me."

_Forgive me_. Words spoken as if there were any merit to them. But the only thing Thor had done wrong was not to tell Harry. Harry, who had done _too_ good of a job pretending that none of it were real. The anger drained away. He felt weak without it.

"What are _you_ apologising for?" he snapped. "Just…leave me be." He didn't even feel like figuring out whether or not he was being consistent, or making any sense. There was pain in his voice, the pain of a wounded animal, and Thor seemed to realise that his lashing out was only born of desperation. His gaze softened.

Harry just wanted to rest, and to put this night behind him, although he knew he couldn't. It was all interconnected now; none of it could be denied without denying the rest.

"What am I to you, then?" asked Thor, and Harry tried for a smile, but it was too painful. Words from a dream, given life.

Harry sighed, and frowned. "You have been my bodyguard, although I did not see it. And you could never be a vassal, or a nursemaid. You are my brother, and therefore my equal," he said, and a smile tried to creep across his face, but its valiant efforts were dashed by Harry's lethargy. "See? I listened, sometimes."

He didn't know what would come of tonight. He only knew that things could never go back to how they were. But perhaps, once he'd acclimated to reality, they might be _better_.

* * *

"I don't know what happened between the two of you, but you're being _stupid_, and I'm tired of it!" she suddenly cried, throwing a heavy textbook down onto the coffee table of the Gryffindor Common Room so hard that the entire table wobbled, all chatter ceased, and everyone in the room turned to look at them.

Harry flinched, and then closed his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied. It was a pointless lie, and they both knew it, but he was little more inclined to face what had happened right now than he had been a week ago.

"If this is about Scabbers—" she began, and he blinked, cocking his head in honest confusion, now.

"—You mean Peter Pettigrew—" he interrupted.

"—Ron really didn't know, and you're not being fair. I mean, he said that if he'd known the truth, he wouldn't have been so upset about Crookshanks trying to kill Scabbers—"

"Wait," Harry said. "Just how much did Ron tell you about what happened, anyway?"

He'd gone right back to calling him Ron. He didn't know what it was—habit, or delusion. It probably didn't matter that much, either way. Now that the truth was out in the open….

A week was far too little time for acclimation.

"Er…well, I'm not sure I understood everything he said, but he said something to the effect of Scabbers being a man named Peter Pettigrew who betrayed your parents to You-Know-Who. And he said that Sirius Black is innocent, and it was proven beyond a reasonable doubt, and something about how Black has been taken to a secure location pending trial…was there something else he should have mentioned?"

He'd left her out of the big secret, which, if you thought about it, was only to be expected. "…No," he said, wondering why he was keeping the secret, even as the truth was now eating him up from within. He couldn't talk about it to anyone. Sirius was the most tempting prospect—somehow, a certain sense of kinship made him easy to trust, violating Harry's norms of behaviour in a way that he should have found suspect. Ron was the second-highest candidate on the list—or he had been, but now….

Harry thought again of the Invasion, of the Coronation, of the Avengers, of a hundred things he'd been happier (or that he told himself he had been happier) thinking were only delusions.

"Then, really, you're making a big deal out of nothing," Hermione said, in such a supercilious manner that Harry grit his teeth, and stood, determined to find someplace that she wouldn't follow, and badger, badger, badger.

"You wouldn't be saying that, if you were in my shoes," he said, and, with a swift glare around the Common Room, he left.

* * *

"Ron's really upset, you know," Ginny said, looking as if she were seconds away from wringing her hands. "I don't think you two have ever quarreled before—have you? But Ron seems to think you're never speaking to him again—"

"So, he sent _you_ to change my mind?" he snapped, and she flinched. Despite himself, his unjustified resentment towards her softened.

She thrust her chin up in an almost-haughty defiance, and crossed her arms. "No. _I_ came to see you without being asked. I saw how miserable Ron was, and I thought—well, I'd made you see reason before—"

"That was different—"

"Quit interrupting!" Ginny snapped. "Let me speak!"

His eyes widened. Ginny's behaviour mystified him, but somehow—perhaps because he'd seen her at her most vulnerable—he wasn't alarmed by her when she snapped at him. And if Ron hadn't even sent her….

"You know, I idolised you, growing up. Then I met you, and realised that you're like everyone else—only a bit more socially awkward. And then…then last year…well, I suppose I respect you a lot for what you did, and I'm grateful to you, and all, but Ron's my brother, you know?"

_No_, Harry wanted to say. _He isn't._ The words strained against confinement, eager to be spoken.

"Ron _loves_ you, you know? Whatever he did that made you upset with him, he didn't mean to. That's all I wanted to say. I know you wouldn't do what you're doing for no reason. I'm sure your anger is justified. But Ron didn't mean to hurt you. That isn't who he is."

She was spot on about Ron. Harry couldn't look at her. Silence reigned for a long moment. But Ginny was patient. She waited for him. He didn't want to know whether or not she could outwait him, too.

"I know," he said, the words a colossal effort to speak, harder than lesser truths. "I know he didn't. He just made me realise something I'd been trying not to. He forced me to face facts I was trying to deny. I suppose I'm shooting the proverbial messenger…but I just need time to…to think. To go through it in my mind, you know? I can't talk to him until I've straightened it all out in my head. Until I've straightened my head out. Will you tell him that?"

Her gaze was soft, and far too compassionate, as if she understood. As if she saw just how vulnerable and weak he was at the moment. He'd asked something similar of Hermione, but she'd refused, saying something about him being childish. But Ginny summoned a too-familiar, strained smile, and said, "Sure, Harry."

There was just one thing to be said after that, although it was perhaps a bit gauche.

"Say, Ginny, where have you been all year? I don't recall seeing you around."

Ginny huffed, and folded her arms, Ron-style, and frowned. Harry smiled at her.

* * *

"Harry! I thought that I might find you here!" a cheerful voice cried, causing him to start and very nearly spill his bottle of ink all over his notes on modern wizarding court procedure. He scowled, taking several deep breaths, and trying to be patient. It was _probably_ a good thing that Ron was back to being fairly cheerful, despite…everything.

"Great. Now, I need to find a new place to hide," he said, in his flattest voice. Of course, he couldn't very well take _this_ many books out of the library, a fact which Ron seemed to realise. "I asked Ginny to tell you to leave me be. Did she perhaps forget—?"

"She did say something to that effect," Ron mused, looking as if his thoughts had been knocked off-course. Now would be a good time to flee, if Harry were so inclined. But before he could, Ron came back to what he was saying. "I thought, perhaps, that you might not have been…entirely honest in your request."

"What, is lying all that I'm capable of doing?" Harry demanded, pushing against the desk with his hands to launch himself to his feet.

"That was not what I meant," Thor said, running a hand through his hair. "However, it has been more than a week—"

"Not long at all, by your standards," Harry said. "The blink of an eye. My transition was not _easy_, as yours was. Do you think I _wished_ to be a monster?"

Thor shook his head. "You were never a monster, Brother," he said. He was saying all the right things, and Harry hated him for it. "We must talk. I will help you. I will do what I can. I have failed you before. I swore an oath to protect you, but I failed you. You suffered for my mistakes. I will not be forsworn again. I will swear another oath, if that is what I must do."

Harry's eyes widened. Suddenly, flight seemed imperative. He glanced around to see whether or not anyone were looking. Thor could make a spectacle of anything, without even trying.

"There is no need—"

"Whatever it is that I have done, only tell me. We can fix this. If we work together, we will succeed. I understand that I have violated your trust, but I know of no way to make amends, Harry."

"Why do you call me 'Harry'?" Harry asked. Surely, Thor's younger brother was more important to Thor than Harry was. Harry's only value to him was that he had once been—still was—Loki. Wasn't that right?

"That is your name," Thor said, with such evident confusion that Harry knew that he was sincere in his incomprehension—he truly didn't follow Harry's logic. "Did you wish for me to call you something else?"

Not that logic had ever been Harry's strong suit. He was better with manipulating people. Ron—Thor—was the chess master. And wasn't that strange?

Suddenly, all those old problems of identity seemed inconsequential. Ron had always been there, from the time Harry had met him on the Hogwarts Express, he had always helped Harry. That secret that loomed large had been kept for innocent reasons. And what did it matter, what name he was called? He was still Harry, still Loki, no matter what.

"Eh, 'what's in a name?'" he asked, with a crooked smile starting to spread across his face. For a moment, things were almost back to normal, almost better than normal, but then Harry remembered that Ron had interrupted. "Just leave me to work on Buckbeak's case in peace," he ordered, pointing in the vicinity of the library door as he returned to work.


	70. Try Again

**Chapter Seventy: Try Again**

Hogwarts was infamous for being a rumour mill—rumours had abounded about what had happened beneath the school at the end of first year before Harry had even regained consciousness. As he was famous, a disproportionate amount of Hogwarts's rumours centred around him.

This explained how everyone in the school already knew—before even the end of the first week—that he and Ron were at odds with each other, somehow. It was the first long-term fight that they had over anything important—the first lasting dispute. No one could pinpoint the causes, or _when_ it had started, or exactly how Hermione factored in—she seemed unfortunately easy to slot into a multitude of roles. It was some reassurance, that no one knew what the fight was about, but poor Hermione was called a great many unflattering things as a result. This put pressure on Harry to forgive Ron, to cut off fodder for the rumours, and it put pressure on Ron to put pressure on Harry.

That may have been why Ron kept seeking him out to try to get Harry to talk to him, but it probably wasn't. Thor had never seemed terribly aware of any gossip, ill-will, or mockery that was directed towards him. Ron was, surprise, surprise, no different on that front. That just meant that all of his attempts to speak with Harry were earnest attempts to reconnect. And maybe he was right; maybe Harry was reluctant to say "bygones", without some ready impetus to force his hand.

Malfoy was good for nothing if not as an impetus. He was quite pleased with how poorly Buckbeak's trial went. By all accounts that Harry or Hermione could get hold of, it was a mockery of a trial—a farce. What had all that time and research been put in for?

Hagrid was so distraught that he hardly seemed aware of what he was doing, moping through his classes in a daze. Very little of that was the knowledge (if it had reached him) that Sirius Black was innocent. The Ministry was, in its usual inept manner, putting off deciding upon a trial date until "The Hippogriff Affair" had been settled. He and Hermione set to drawing up plans for the appeal with a will. Harry doubted that they would work.

And meanwhile, here was Malfoy, gloating. And Harry had, loath though he was to admit it, given him rather a lot to gloat about. Buckbeak was old news that Malfoy repeatedly dredged up; perhaps he was justifiably concerned that Gryffindor would crush Slytherin in the final match of the season. Or it might have been that he'd noticed Harry's bad humour, and feared for his own life. But probably not that, or he wouldn't have done what he did.

It was a death wish to challenge Thor in any real duel, and the Malfoy-Weasley feud was well-known in the Wizarding World, with bad blood going back generations. Ron, further, was in rather a state, still, about everything that had happened, particularly with Harry not speaking to him. The confession, furthermore, had had the odd side-effect of lifting the burden of responsibility from his shoulders, by quite a bit, which meant that he exhibited less restraint in general, knowing full well as he did that Harry, left to his own devices, could generally take care of himself.

All these things, taken together, were a recipe for disaster. Tensions were high anyway, and Malfoy, who could be counted on to stir things up when they were about to boil over, decided to gloat. And, although Harry, who had broken at least three of Malfoy's wands, all told, was right there, Malfoy had no second thoughts about taunting Ron. About Harry not speaking him. Doubtless stirring some rather old, _very_ bitter memories, now that Harry knew to look for such a response. The implication was clear: Harry and Ron were on the outs, so Ron was on his own.

Harry, as if he didn't care, stood back and watched. He was very well aware of how well Thor could defend himself, and he could hold his own in a wizard's duel, too, judging by the destroyed clearing in first year. Harry realised, now, how Ron could _accidentally_ set someone on fire…why every time Ron lost his temper, it seemed to manifest in the same way. Electricity. Sparks. There was a figure he'd read, somewhere, about what percent of wildfires were started by lightning. Really, it was a remarkable display of restraint on Thor's part that Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest hadn't burnt down by now. There was no need to worry about Ron.

But there was a deeply engrained habit, which it was possible (if difficult) to ignore, to watch, at the very least. To be ready to intervene, as Harry _knew_ that he would, if it looked as if Ron needed help. Such as, say, when Crabbe and Goyle got involved. Hufflepuff was the house of fair-play. Slytherin was the house of opportunism. It was as predictable as it was inevitable.

It was Ron who picked the fight, of course, because if there were a continuum of how easy it was to goad someone into a fight, Harry would be somewhere in the middle, on the hard side, and Ron would be far on the easy side, with Malfoy in between.

Insult Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Check. Insult Gryffindor House in general? Check. And then, the question, "What's the matter, Weasley?" Malfoy drawled. "Trouble in paradise? I don't see Potter jumping to your aid, as he usually does,"

_Did_ he? Harry hadn't noticed that, but it was possible. He'd assumed, before, that Ron was only human, and…. Harry shook his head, to focus on the fight that had just begun. Malfoy had pushed the one button sure to set Ron off—the complicated mess that was recent events, recent revelations, and the fact that Harry wasn't speaking to him.

_**I**__ caused this_, Harry thought with what might almost be considered awe. He watched the fight closely, but when the fight expanded, when Malfoy had managed to manoeuvre Ron into a position, with his back to Crabbe and Goyle, and Crabbe or Goyle (did it matter which; it wasn't as if they were individuals?) aimed a thicker-than-usual wand at Ron's back, Harry intervened, almost automatically. He could have chosen to remain out of it, and that knowledge was enough for him.

"_Incarcerous_," he said, pointing at the offending slytherin, as ropes shot from his wand. He turned to the other, and cast the spell again, for good measure, before turning back to Malfoy, who was rounding on him. He stuck his left hand in his pocket, aiming straight at Malfoy with his right. "I think you may have misunderstood the situation, Malfoy," he said, in a level voice. "Gossip is only rarely true, after all. Now, why don't you remove yourself from our presence, before you lose another wand."

He gave Malfoy his friendliest smile, and Malfoy paled, taking a step back, and hastily stuffing the wand he was clutching away. Somewhere behind him, a member of the audience laughed. Harry paid them no mind, his gaze fixed on Malfoy, who was backing away, as if that would help protect him.

"My father will hear about this!" Malfoy cried, as he prepared to turn tail and run. It was all Harry could do not to reply that he should be more worried about _Ron's_ father. Harry kept smiling, as Malfoy backed off, with his hand, level and steady, following Malfoy's movement in his retreat.

"Just like old times, I suppose," he said, slipping the wand at last back into its holster, and turning to Ron, beaming. Ron stared, which was perhaps an understandable reaction, given that this was the friendliest Harry had been to him in months. Or perhaps even years?

"You…defended me," he said, frowning as he puzzled it over. Harry's smile faded. He blinked. Stared. The stare swiftly turned into a glare.

"What, and you thought that I wouldn't? I don't _believe_ you. Oh, ye of little faith!" He walked over to Ron, ostensibly to make sure he wasn't hurt, and whispered, "I, too, swore an oath, and I swore it first. And I, not you, was first to break it. I would think that you would not have forgotten that."

Then he turned and left, before Ron could formulate a proper response.

* * *

If things were different from how they had been before, perhaps it was not a bad thing at all. There was a certain understanding between Harry and Ron—or Loki and Thor—that had never been there before—or perhaps not for a very long time. Hermione seemed able to tell immediately when they had come to an understanding: she'd looked from Harry to Ron and back, and burst into tears. "You're so stupid!" she sobbed, and Ron, seemingly on reflex, reached out to her, ignoring Harry's raised eyebrows.

"Hermione," he began, but Harry was already saying,

"_I'm_ so stupid?" His level of incredulity was difficult for _him_ to believe. Really, Hermione, where was this coming from?

"You're both the biggest, proudest, most idiotic idiots I've ever had to deal with," she cried, throwing her arms in the air. "You've spent the past two weeks fighting for no reason at all, as far as I can tell. What is _wrong_ with you two? Are you _sure_ you're not related, somehow?"

That was too much for Harry. He didn't want his mind to go off on a tangent about nature versus nurture, and just how much of your personality carried in through _reincarnation_, of all things. "Quite," he said, with some acerbity. Families were a sensitive subject for him on any side of the equation. Most equations didn't have three sides, but what could you do? "I suppose I'm technically an adopted Weasley, if that counts."

"Not technically," said Ginny, beaming at them, looking up from her homework. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and she blushed and looked back at her homework. He shook his head. Ginny was inscrutable and a headache at the best of times. "It is rather odd that Ron seems to have more in common with you than with the rest of us Weasleys, though."

She seemed to be considering the matter instead of her homework, tapping the feather of her quill against her chin. Harry stared at her. _Does this mean that she noticed that connection that neither of us did—with no knowledge of the background reasoning behind it, and on her own_? He seemed to have underestimated Ginny. In his thoughts, she still seemed to be the girl whose lifeless body he'd had to revive in the Chamber of Secrets, last year. And perhaps he'd spent too little time discovering who she was when she wasn't the damsel in distress.

Harry frowned, glancing down at his feet, and shoving his homework for Divination aside. "Now, I think you're both making far too big a deal of this," he said, glancing around the table at them. "And, I am _not_ an idiot."

That point seemed particularly important to clarify. Without his intelligence, what did he have?

* * *

The night of January Thirty-First was, of course, much more interesting than it had any right to be. Harry approached the cottage door with some misgiving. He wasn't sure _what_ he ought to say, or whether it was even a good idea to bring up recent events, or to try to pretend that nothing were different.

He stopped outside the cottage door. He'd have to tell her, eventually. He was even on speaking terms with Ron, again. He'd adjusted. Maybe.

He knocked, waiting for her to answer before turning the handle, and opening the door a crack, before pausing. He seemed to be putting this off for as long as possible. But the truth was: he didn't even know how he'd react around her, anymore. Everything seemed so…different. _He_ seemed so different. Could so much have changed in only a month?

He opened the door, and stepped into the exact same cottage that he remembered, careful when stepping over the rug he'd once tripped over, certain that she wouldn't be in the living room after being stuck there for so long. He glanced in that direction nonetheless. No, she wasn't there.

He wandered through the house, instead of calling out to her to ask where she was, precisely. It was alarming, how unchanged it seemed. A real house would have items misplaced, moved, added, thrown away. But this house, as if frozen in time, remained as it had been when he'd first seen it. He'd spent most of his time in the living room, or the outside garden. There were still entire rooms that he'd never seen. If they'd changed, he would never know it.

He started when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. "What's this? Nostalgia?" she teased, with a fond smile. "I have never seen you wander this house alone."

And she was no different.

"Not nostalgia," he corrected her. "Perhaps curiosity. What lies in the basement?"

She frowned, something sparking in her eyes. "You should not seek it out, my son. Every place has its dangers."

"Yes, I remember," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. She narrowed her eyes, studying him.

"Has something happened? You seem different."

A sharp, bitter laugh, one of many. Her brow furrowed as she continued to watch him.

"My world has been turned on its head, upended. Buckbeak lost his trial; Gryffindor defeated Ravenclaw; I found Thor; Peter Pettigrew has been caught."

Her eyes widened with each statement, until they were so wide that part of him wondered how they remained in their sockets. An inane thought.

"…I see," she said, enfolding him in a hug. "Much indeed has happened since last we met. And Thor…." Wistful longing accompanied that aborted sentence, and Harry squashed any inclination towards jealousy before it could be born.

"I gave Pettigrew no quarter. I remembered what you had said. And I can no longer humour my old delusions. That should please you."

She stroked his hair, fingers gentle as they parted it. She was crying. He didn't want to know why; he didn't ask. Perhaps, someday, he would regret that, too.

"You will not die again, Mother. Thor and I will protect you, as we should have, then."

It was not yet a promise.

* * *

Sirius Black sent in his signature to allow Harry to go to Hogsmeade, but, as his case was ongoing, Harry wasn't officially allowed to go, yet. Still, the fact that he'd already been, combined with the knowledge that he would go again once Sirius was cleared, made it easier to bear when he was told that he would have to sit this Hogsmeade visit out. He dutifully promised to stay on Hogwarts grounds, and not to try to sneak out.

He decided to go see what Professor Lupin was doing, and perhaps practice his Patronus Charm. Professor Lupin had, understandably, been distracted of late.

"Ah—Harry," he said, when Harry knocked on the door. "Just a minute…ah, yes, a Hogsmeade weekend, but I don't mind some company."

He was rambling. Harry looked around the room. He had no idea where the trunk was when they weren't practising. Presumably, somewhere where an innocent first year wouldn't stumble across it. But he would have expected to find it in Professor Lupin's office, and it wasn't here.

This was a pity. He hadn't had a chance to even try the Patronus Charm since that fateful night when everything had changed. He could feel it now…access to much deeper reserves of power and magic than he'd previously supposed that he had—all the strength he'd given, sequestered off for access to only one specific part of his mind. It was exactly the stupid sort of thing that Sirius would say typified intelligent people. But the point was that he wanted to see, now that he was no longer in denial, what he could do. And he wanted to study the true Patronus Charm, again, as he had parseltongue, last year.

"I don't mean to intrude," he said, looking around Professor Lupin's cluttered desk. Lupin looked tired, but seemed to have much more energy than usual. This was odd, because it was almost the full moon.

"You will be pleased to hear that preparations for Sirius's trial are going well," he said, with a genuine smile. "I can't thank you and Ron enough for uncovering the truth—all these years that I thought that I was the last of the Marauders, and now I realise that there is still another left…it was quite lonely, all alone with my memories. But listen to me go on like an old man. What can I do for you, Harry?"

Harry sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. "I thought that we might practise the Patronus Charm," he said, pretending that he didn't see Lupin's slight frown.

"With the dementors leaving, there seems to be little need—"

Harry gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "You don't know my luck, professor. Trust me, I _will_ encounter them again, and I will need to be prepared."

Professor Lupin glanced at him, his expression suddenly strangely guarded. "Well…well, alright, I suppose. I'm not properly prepared for such a lesson today, however—I wasn't even expecting you to visit."

Harry cocked his head to the side, glancing around the room. He could believe that. At least he could tell when Professor Lupin was lying, although that was not quite as useful a skill as he'd previously believed it to be.

"I've been thinking about that spell a lot," he said, looking down and away, as if lost in thought.

It was true that he'd given the spell quite a bit of thought. He didn't know what it was, what it was made of, but he sensed that the way it was usually used did not tap into the spell's true potential. He remembered his suspicion that _love_ could be used as an alternative to happiness in the casting. But if he could see it cast, he could take apart what comprised the spell. With those components….

"Then, just show me the spell again," he said, and Professor Lupin's brows furrowed in perplexity.

"But you already know the wand movements—you've cast the spell successfully before. You can't have already forgot—"

_Oh yes, I think you will find that I __**can**_, he thought, but did not say aloud. Saying such things would not bring him closer to his goal. Instead, he leant forwards.

"I am clearly missing something in my spellcasting. Show me again."

That strange air of camaraderie encouraged Harry to behave quite differently from usual around Professor Lupin, who, seeming to feel that same ambiance, reacted atypically to Harry's erratic behaviour. It was as if they were friends, hanging out and practicing spellwork—as if Harry were one of the Marauders, or Professor Lupin were…hmm, Hermione? He didn't fit in the role of Ron….

It was as if they were equals, when the truth was far more complicated than that. The truth was a cage of barbed wire, but at least it wasn't biting him, for the moment.

Perhaps, now that he was back in Hogwarts, Professor Lupin was nostalgic and retrospective, thinking back on his childhood with fondness, letting some of his old habits creep back in, letting himself be influenced by friendships whose breakage surely lay in the future, forecast, and not the past. Rather than scolding Harry, or lecturing, or even sending him away, Professor Lupin pointed the wand at the door through which Harry had entered, and said, "_Exspecto patronum_!"

Harry watched, seventh sense wide open, analysing the structure of the spell, the substance of it, the way it created a lure—a burst stream of the very emotions that dementors naturally consumed, but in a form unpalatable to them.

Because it was divorced from its originator, the original memories were protected. What emerged from the patronus was the raw emotion itself, untethered, its strength born of the strength of the memory, and the will of the caster. Once cast, the patronus existed independently of its originator, fed by the unidirectional memory substance, attuned with the mind of its creator, until it returned to be absorbed back into the caster's body, or dissipated, returning in a less physical way to its point of origin.

Mother's love was somewhat similar—but the sentiment and substance of her protective armour was more than only love. There were other things mixed in—a desire to protect, grief, purpose. In some ways, Mother's armour was stronger than the Patronus Charm; in others, it was weaker.

Harry watched as Professor Lupin's slightly vague Patronus—mistier and less substantial than Harry's stag, it was nevertheless identifiable as a wolf—returned to its master. Professor Lupin reached a hand out to it, and the white substance that made up the Patronus flowed, invisible, back up his arm and into his body, aiming for his heart.

Harry thought of Mother, thought of how she had sheltered him, lost sleep over him, died for him, shielded him from the dementors, fended off the mantra when Ron wasn't there to protect him. Crystals of negativity lost in the matrix of positivity weakened the strength of the spell. Harry sifted through his own thoughts, through the energy he was focusing into his wand without consciously realising it, and suppressed the bitter memories that would weaken the spell. Then, he cried, "_Exspecto patronum_!", and watched as the bright light of a full-fledged patronus erupted from it, each prong of the antler distinct and clear, eyes visible as a slight darkening in the face.

With no foe readily apparent, it walked over to Professor Lupin, who stood frozen to his seat, looking rather paler than usual. He was shaking and crying, and seemed completely unaware of Harry's existence. A cord of energy connected Harry to the patronus, feeding it energy in a continual stream, in a way that almost reminded Harry of Riddle and the diary, last year.

"Prongs?" asked Professor Lupin, with wistful longing painfully raw in his voice.

Harry turned away, acutely aware of how personal the experience was. After a moment, the stag trotted back over to Harry, antlers lowered, already beginning to dissipate at the edges. Harry's energy felt not at all drained, despite how much he knew that it usually siphoned off. Patroni were a massive drain on energy. It took great focus and energy to cast the spell properly to begin with, and then even more to sustain it. Harry was sure that most wizards would be lucky to hold it for more than a few seconds, that quite a few could hold it for five minutes or so, but it would drain them dangerously deep, and that only a very few—including Dumbledore, doubtless, could maintain one for longer.

There was silence for a minute. "Well done, Harry," Professor Lupin said at last. He sounded strained, and less sincere than usual. Tired, as if it were draining his energy to the level of casting a patronus, merely to speak.

Harry sighed. "Thank you, Professor," he said, glancing over in Professor Lupin's direction with a small smile. "Shall we see how it fares with an actual dementor?"

* * *

Professor Lupin was a bit more obliging to Harry's goals than perhaps he ordinarily would be. He led Harry to the staff room, which was, at the moment, empty, revealing the chest that held the boggart. It was covered in protective spells to keep the monster in, and to try to discourage the curious (or saboteurs?) from opening the chest themselves. Probably, it was just to keep Snape from "accidentally" getting rid of Professor Lupin's "pet project".

Professor Lupin looked as if he might be having misgivings, possibly questioning just why he was doing this to begin with. He'd never been here at Hogwarts to know how Harry's year usually went. Nevertheless, he cast a levitation spell on the chest, and they headed back to his office. Harry offered to help carry it, but Professor Lupin seemed to think it would be better if he "saved his strength" for the impromptu lesson. Not knowing what he could say that would change Lupin's mind without spilling the entire story, Harry only followed.

There was always an abandoned classroom in which to practise spells at Hogwarts, but they sometimes took some time to find. Even though this was a Hogsmeade trip, it was a Saturday, and first and second years still had classes. Doubtless, Professor Lupin had always somehow either been incredibly lucky, or ensured beforehand that the classrooms that they used were unoccupied. On short notice, they had to use his office.

He quietly shut and locked the door, lest Professor Snape take it upon himself to deliver a batch of Wolfsbane Potion early. Not that Professor Lupin told Harry this; Harry just assumed, because it seemed to make sense. There was almost a sense of wrongdoing to the whole process, as if it were illegal to ask for or offer tutoring. It put Professor Lupin in a far more casual mood—and he was never exactly strict, anyway. He'd earned the reputation of the "cool teacher" within a week or two of his arrival. This all served to create an atmosphere of casual wariness that reminded Harry of…well, himself, and Sirius Black. It was not the most conducive environment for creating a Patronus, which meant that it was ideal for practice—at least at the level Harry was attempting.

Enter the dementor. Harry began to realise one of the downsides to acknowledging the truth: always, before, he'd used that part of himself that he'd considered strong as a barricade. Before the dementors could access the most central part of his soul, they'd had to try to get past _Loki_—which was not the easiest thing in the world to do. And, in turn, Loki's memories had been hidden, suppressed, under the entirety of Harry's. But with the recent upheaval, Harry, while finally whole again, nevertheless now _had_ no second line of defence.

He pulled himself up off the floor, his own screams still ringing in his ears, irked that he'd managed to be sidelined by the obvious problem, and shaking from the impact of pain and memories last visited in nightmares two-and-a-half years ago. He suspected that, life being unjust as it was, he was now more susceptible to mind control, too, and that it would take far less than before to drive him into mantra-born madness.

He shared none of this with Professor Lupin, instead only dragging himself to his feet by exerting an absurd amount of force on an inoffensive desk chair. Halfway to his feet, with his arms draped across the soft wood of the seat, he turned to Professor Lupin.

"Again," he said. He thought that he didn't sound quite like himself, and Lupin's startled hesitation confirmed it.

"Harry, I don't think—"

"I was not expecting that memory, before. Now, I am. Let me try again." Ah, yes, the uncommon edge of steel in his voice, that usually had Hermione, even, frozen like a rabbit. He pulled himself to his feet the rest of the way. He was swaying, as if he'd lost far more energy than, in truth, he _had_. A part of his mind, still trapped in that cold metal room, disbelieved that his feet could support him.

"Harry, I don't think—"

"_Let me try again_," Harry demanded, and then, catching himself, added, in a voice much subdued, "please."

Professor Lupin, looking as if he did this only with the greatest reluctance, turned back to the chest. "Ready, now, Harry?" he asked, voice thick with worry.

"Ready, Professor Lupin," he said, but he waited until the fake dementor had left its confines, once again, to reach for the power tangled up with his mother's love. His mother's love, without the armour. He remembered the night he had pulled her from the Mirror, how warmth had stolen up his arm in response to the chill he'd spread even into the mirror. The warmth traveled down his arm, as the dementor inhaled.

Unwilling to take any risks this time, his mind-soul a jumbled mess as a side-effect of recent efforts, anyway, he charged the wizarding magic of the patronus with the _other_ kind of magic. The resulting patronus was so bright that Professor Lupin gasped and covered his eyes, and Harry himself had to look away. Maybe he'd just charge it with the Star Preserver spell, next time.

"That…what _was_ that?" he heard Professor Lupin say, but his voice was distant. Harry pushed forwards, driving his patronus towards the fake dementor. It backed off, seeking for the safety of the box, and he realised that, as a being that fed off of fear, a boggart was much like a dementor. A net of connections and interrelationships seemed to reveal itself between the two. "How did you do that?" Professor Lupin was asking. He'd said quite a bit that Harry hadn't heard, focused as he was on boggarts and dementors and patroni. Now, hearing Professor Lupin's voice, he came back to himself.

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, professor; I was just thinking. Boggarts and dementors are quite similar, aren't they?"

He walked over to Professor Lupin, his stride reduced to a sort of awkward shuffle amidst desks, where Lupin had fallen. He held out a hand to help Professor Lupin up, and Lupin took it, with a wry smile.

"That was quite some patronus," he said, still looking distant and a bit shaken, with a dash of Harry-is-an-anomaly thrown in. Harry hated that look, the look that said that Harry was a freak, different, possibly even a delinquent, but Professor Lupin's seemed to be the variety that thought that Harry, if strange, was nevertheless a _good_ kind of strange, a sort of marvel to gawk at when he wasn't looking. And even that look faded away into contrition when Professor Lupin realised that Harry had seen it.

"I'm sorry. You were just…." Professor Lupin trailed off, unfortunately, leaving no clue as to where that sentence would have ended. Instead, he reached into a pocket, and pulled out a slab of chocolate, which he proceeded to set upon a desk, and then take out what looked to be at least a decade's worth of frustrations out on it. Harry watched, thinking that he might want to take a step back. Professor Lupin handed over several thick triangles-that-should-have-been-squares, and took a few, himself.

"And I have something else," said Professor Lupin, back to his easy, cheery voice. "For a job well done, although I must say I can't approve of you pushing yourself so hard. I would have thought that recent events, such as falling off your broomstick, would have encouraged you to take the risks of overexposure more seriously. And I have been quite an irresponsible teacher, humouring you."

Harry had the sense that Professor Lupin was trying to temper whatever reward he'd already intended to give Harry before they'd gone down this road with a hefty dollop of guilt, but the lecture washed right over him. Few people were capable of making him feel guilty for anything he'd done, and he had far too much experience with the guilt tactic to fall so easily for it, himself.

"Thank you for the lesson, Professor," he said. "I don't think I shall need more. I think I've got it, now. But it seems that there was something that you'd already decided to talk to me about."

Professor Lupin paused, frowning, perhaps at Harry's lack of response. "Ah, no. Well, I thought I'd speak to you about Sirius Black a bit. They moved him out of Mungo's at last, although they're still gathering evidence for the trial. He wants to see you, but Dumbledore has insisted that he wait until you've finished school for the year. You can continue sending letters, however."

"St. Mungo's is the 'secure centre' in which the famed mass-murderer Sirius Black is being held?" he asked, incredulous. Professor Lupin shot him a look of what seemed to be trying to be both humour and reproach. It succeeded rather more at the former than the latter.

"They didn't want everyone knowing where he was before they'd had a chance to clear things up—especially not the press, that horrid Rita Skeeter, you know—" He didn't. "Telling the public that he was in a well-guarded facility set their minds at ease—and he _was_ well-guarded, but by aurors, not dementors, and they were there to protect him, not the public. Pettigrew is being held somewhere quite different. You know, Sirius has a cousin who's an auror. She volunteered for the responsibility…."

He had a slightly-dreamy expression, until he remembered where he was, and shook himself. "And I thought we could have a bit of a toast—to justice served at last, and victory of Gryffindor over Slytherin—not that I'm supposed to take sides, as a teacher—"

"Don't worry," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I won't tell anyone that you have opinions."


	71. The Trial of the Century

**Chapter Seventy-One: The Trial of the Century**

Hermione did not seem to realise that she might be considered to be fulfilling Trelawney's prophecy from the first day of class, when she jammed her textbooks into her bag and stormed out. Lavender and Parvati, by contrast, were almost inclined to gloat. They'd spent an unfortunate amount of time holed up with Professor Trelawney during lunch breaks, and now seemed to view her as an infallible purveyor of knowledge.

Harry was quite as frustrated as Hermione, but for completely different reasons. Still, he reasoned, it was almost inevitable that the subject he most wanted answers upon (and now with much greater ardour) should someday come up. Perhaps in one specific class lecture.

If all else failed, he could stay back and ask her after some lesson, which grew more appealing by the day, despite how he was growing more repulsed by the idea of staying here a second longer than necessary. The constant fog in which she immersed the classroom couldn't be good for anyone. But he knew—better than almost anyone, for he remembered his research—that there were such things as true prophets, who gave true knowledge.

If Hermione had listened, she would have noticed Professor Trelawney's emphasis in the simple subtleties of forecasting the future—Trelawney said it often enough. But Hermione, he was beginning to understand, was good at learning facts and processes, able to recite and regurgitate information, but with almost no capacity to do anything creative with it. She took always the most literal, logical approach to things, and any illogical thing was a stumbling block for her to overcome. Divination was not straightforward, not a matter of process, not a matter of memorising words and pronunciations and wand movements. It was not fixed and immutable, and there was always some leeway in interpretation, even as the future changed as it was observed.

Accordingly, she assumed that Professor Trelawney was a fraud, and that all of her predictions were hot and cold readings. It was an easy enough assumption to make, and Trelawney's need to seem more powerful than she was lent extra plausibility to this interpretation.

Most of her predictions were small, simple things, things that eluded your notice unless you watched and kept track in a tally board. But if you _did_ keep track, you would notice that her accuracy was greater than that suggested by mere statistics, and that, because the matters were mostly all too small to merit notice, because they were not big, earth-shaking predictions, Hermione dismissed them. Harry did not.

Divination, Professor Trelawney said several times, was not a discipline that could be used on command. It required a certain openness and receptivity, a flexibility that Hermione lacked, with her rational, methodical mind, and that Ron was too impulsive and stubborn to access. Of the three of them, he had the greatest chances of becoming a seer. Harry had shown his own weakness in his three year refusal to accept the truth when it stared him in the face. But he was at least open enough to recognise that something real was happening, even if it was beyond his ability to access.

Only Ron had any genuine skill in the subject, which Harry did not, for once, begrudge him. It was kind of amusing. Or, perhaps he was just his father's son, and some of the pain of his father's sacrifice for wisdom had rubbed off.

That was a much less amusing interpretation.

Although Ron seemed to have some sort of latent skill in the subject, that couldn't have been his reason for signing up, last year. Harry knew his own motivations—what exactly had made _Thor_ choose this subject? Harry had wanted to know how anyone who had never even been to Asgard, and were highly unlikely to have met anyone in the royal family, could know the deep secret that had torn the dream-family apart. Then, too, he'd heard about Ragnarök, and wondered if it could be avoided. Had Ron heard of Ragnarök? Should Harry tell him about it, just when they'd made amends?

Because he didn't have ready answers, he kept silent, awaiting a topic that might never come up.

* * *

It was near the end of April that Professor Lupin took Harry and Ron aside to give them the update on Sirius Black's now-impending trial. The obvious conclusion was that they'd done all the investigation and interrogation pertaining to Buckbeak's trial that they were going to do. Now, on to Sirius Black.

He'd been moved from the "secure and isolated" facility to a prison cell, complete with a light guard of dementors. No one save for Dumbledore, Professor Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Ron, Harry, and Hermione knew that Sirius Black was an unregistered animagus. The only thing holding Sirius Black in his cell was his gryffindor sense of chivalry and honour. He could escape, if need be, but Harry still grit his teeth at the injustice of it. But, until Pettigrew was convicted….

Well, Sirius had already lasted for over a decade in prison. A couple of months couldn't do that much more damage. Harry silently set himself the task of researching any possible means of helping Sirius Black to recover. He knew from personal experience that the effects of dementors were rooted far more deeply than mere physical drain on the body. Mother said that soul-stuff gradually regenerates, given time—unless you had crossed a certain threshold. He rather suspected that Sirius Black had, and that it would take more than just waiting to put Sirius back together.

The more relevant fact was that Ron and Percy, at the very least, were expected to testify, having been the "owners" of "Scabbers" for several years. The Wizengamot would extract as much information as they could—any signs that Scabbers had been other than he appeared, while he had been in hiding. This was particularly important in Percy's case, as his lack of involvement in the reveal meant that his testimony was "unblemished" by "association" with Black. In other words, because he and Sirius Black had never crossed paths, Black had had no opportunity to cast any sort of unsavoury spells on him. Such as any sort of memory modification charms.

Professor Lupin, also, was being called to testify, and Harry had to be prepared—they probably wouldn't call him, but they might, so he ought to be ready. But, as the trial was due to start, soon, Professor Lupin, Ron, and Percy would be leaving in a couple of days.

"You _will_ be alright, while I am away?" asked Ron, with more than a bit of trepidation. His meaning could not have been more obvious, but this was just the same as when he'd paid Harry a visit before the trip to Egypt.

"I promise not to go mad and try to take over the world," Harry said, rolling his eyes. Professor Lupin thought that he was being sarcastic. The secret meaning in Harry's words was lost on those with no background knowledge of the Chitauri Invasion. Which was just him and Thor. "With the dementors gone, the main threat is Malfoy. I doubt Riddle is going to make some sort of attempt on the school whilst you're gone. We would have seen some hint of that fact, and furthermore, Dumbledore will still be here."

"Dumbledore is leaving, too," Professor Lupin had to add. It was tempting to glare at him, too.

"Well, Riddle is currently a disembodied spirit hiding in the forests of Albania."

"Harry," Professor Lupin said, and Harry could tell this was going to be bad news as much by the hesitation, the long pause after his name, as by the uncertainty in his voice. "I will most likely not be returning to Hogwarts."

He was going to continue, but Harry leapt into the slight pause. "Whyever not?" he demanded, eyes narrowed at Professor Lupin. Now, he _might_ glare. "The year isn't even out, yet, and you're the best Defence teacher we've had!"

Professor Lupin looked down at his briefcase and avoided looking at either Ron or Harry. "Ah. Well, my affliction is likely to come up in testimony, and this trial is national news. Parents will not want a _werewolf_ to be teaching their children. Dangerous half-breeds and monsters, you know; there are Ministry officials who try to deny us basic rights, never mind mention a job teaching children. It might not come up, and if it doesn't, I'll be glad to finish off the year—but I rather think I've served my purpose here. Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes.

"I have arranged for a substitute to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts—Dumbledore is calling her a junior professor to try to avoid the curse said to be on the position, and I'm still the official professor. You'll like her; she's Sirius Black's cousin, and she shares his…disregard of norms. She's an auror, too. She should be quite good at her job. I've asked her to help finish your lessons on the Patronus Charm, and I'm sure the two of you will have no problem getting rid of the boggart at last, which, I might add, is at this point something of a mercy for it."

Harry flinched, but Lupin was too busy looking at his suitcase, packing away papers, to notice. Ron glanced at him again, as if to ask if he were _absolutely__ sure_ that he would be fine in Ron's absence.

"I just wanted to warn you in advance, give you time to say your goodbyes, and whatnot. I'll take good care of Ron, never fear, and you will be seeing me again, even if I never return to Hogwarts. You have an owl; she'll have no trouble finding me. It was a pleasure teaching you. You're one of the brightest students I've had the pleasure to meet."

Ron was shaking his head, as if to say _of course_. It couldn't possibly be considered a surprise that one of Asgard's premier magic-users would be considered "a good student".

"Then I suppose it now falls to the three of you to see Sirius exonerated. A chance for you to redeem yourself, in his eyes, and in yours," Harry said, gaze lowering to the floor. There was an odd relationship between him and Lupin, and between him and Thor, but he'd never spoken to just the two of them, together, before. Perhaps Ginny was right in considering him socially awkward—any knowledge Loki had of how to interact with individuals was either irrelevant, skewed by differences in culture, or outright lost in transference to Harry. He'd have to go the human route of figuring society out on his own.

"Be careful, little brother," Ron said, with that stern gravity that had been rather scarce, of late. Harry just shrugged and grinned.

"Ah. Well, you know me."

That was, of course, the problem. Unsurprisingly, Thor was not reassured.

* * *

It was decided that Harry Potter did not need to appear before the court, which was almost a shame. He'd spent quite some time studying wizarding court etiquette for Buckbeak's doomed case, after all. Still, he was cheered by the knowledge that wizarding trials tended to be rather brief affairs. He had no idea how long the average muggle trial was for similar circumstances, but a verdict was promised for a few weeks after the trial began.

In the meantime, he and Hermione followed the trial by way of the _Daily Prophet_, which seemed unsure whether to continue kissing up to Fudge, or whether to curry favour with the last scion of The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Sirius Black might have mentioned that he, like Malfoy, was practically nobility.

Hermione disapproved of the whole thing and seemed to worry constantly about Ron, which, as Harry knew for his own part, was laughable. Any way you cut it, Ron was more than a match for the courtroom. Son of a king, strong and resilient (body and soul), steadfast and confident, with a strong sense of self. Pettigrew's advocates might try to unseat him, but they would fail. They had no idea whom they were messing with.

Hermione continued to fret, and Harry had little he could do or say to reassure her. Hogwarts seemed dingier, somehow, with its Weasley population halved. The Twins (who really counted as only one person) and Ginny were left behind. Ginny, at least, had faith in Ron, which was more than could be said of the Twins. They seemed determined to remember Ron as he'd been back before that fatal tenth birthday. And, interesting though it was to hear about a very different, very human Ron Weasley, Harry wished they'd give credit where credit was due.

One good thing to come of all this was Nymphadora Tonks, their assistant professor. Malfoy was horrified by her presence for about a hundred different reasons, from the fact that she was a "blood traitor" and an auror, to the way she often flouted the unspoken Hogwarts policy that even teachers had to wear nothing but robes, appearing frequently in t-shirts and jeans. And then, there was her bright pink hair….

Even worse, she could find no fault with their previous professor, whom Malfoy loathed for mysterious reasons (perhaps he knew that Professor Lupin was a werewolf, or perhaps it was that his clothes weren't high enough class for a Malfoy's tastes). And she went by her surname, Tonks, which was a muggle name, as she was a halfblood. Malfoy glared daggers at her, and she, in a conspiratorial whisper, shared that Malfoy was technically her cousin, too. "His mum's my aunt. I've another one, too, but she's crazy and a psychopath. Dunno how Sirius escaped the family curse."

She was, however, more of a hindrance than a help, when dealing with the boggart-dementor, owing to her extreme clumsiness. She had to stay well away from the chest, and try not to move around too much, lest she come too close, and the boggart transform into _her_ worst fear, or she accidentally kick it open by tripping over it.

"Just _how_ do you go about making those horrid things amusing?" she muttered to herself, which was a very good question. Harry could always corral the dementor back into its box, now, but they remained stuck on that front. Tonks refused to violate Professor Lupin's instructions for Harry's tutoring. He supposed the practice was no longer hurting him. He let it pass.

He asked around at Gryffindor Tower, and Dean Thomas enthused about some muggle movie called _Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey_, released several years ago. He set to drawing a scene from the movie, in which Death, whom the dementors superficially resembled, was dressed up in a…well, dress, to have an audience with God. It was all unsettlingly religious for Harry, but nevertheless fodder. Dean's rendition of Death-in-a-dress was noteworthy on its own.

But that was probably the way to go about it. Dementors could not be made less frightening, but Harry had no great fear of death, or even of Death. This was a breakthrough, although it reminded him of that first class, with Neville and Professor Boggart-Augusta-Snape. Tonks loved it. And "Death in a dress" seemed to work decently for dealing with dementor-boggarts, as long as you kept yourself from noticing their frigid chill, and acted before they could start sucking all joy and life from the room. This probably meant that Harry owed Dean.

Despite her clumsiness, and her less laid-back air, it was generally agreed upon that, if Professor Lupin had to go away, he'd found a suitable replacement. The only thing they seemed not to like about her was her periodic habit of shouting "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" and then smirking, as if there were some joke they should be getting.

Sense would be made of that in-joke all too soon.

* * *

Sirius's acquittal was both the obvious outcome of the trial, and reassuring. _The Daily Prophet_ was abuzz for a few weeks with speculation as to what other innocents might be trapped within Azkaban, and what other guilty parties might still walk free, which put Malfoy in something of a mood. Sirius Black had kept his secret of being an illegal animagus, although he'd privately, quietly registered himself on a secret list he'd petitioned to have made.

Professor Lupin was not as fortunate: the trial was not the only headline news in the paper. True to Professor Lupin's prediction, the school flooded with owls begging the recently returned Dumbledore to fire Professor Lupin, and the same sentiment could be found in the editorials, although there were also plenty of people (an amount that Lupin would later admit surprised him) who supported Professor Lupin, noting that the Wolfsbane Potion made him safe to be around children, and werewolves had to live too, you know. Actually, some of the letters arriving by the dozens might have been speaking in his defence, too. It wasn't as if Professor Dumbledore read them aloud before the whole school.

Ron, Percy, and Professor Lupin returned to the school soon after Dumbledore, in late May, and Professor Lupin pretended not to hear the whispers and comments about him that ran rampant through Hogwarts's halls.

But, Harry still heard. He seethed. Professor Lupin clearly knew his material, and there hadn't been a single incident—some of these students whispering about him behind his back had thought him "cool", before. Public opinion, especially at a school, was a fickle thing.

They had an unnervingly quiet April and May. Tonks stayed behind to continue her role as assistant professor. Since the Wizarding World was currently at peace, the Ministry didn't mind sparing her for an extended period—particularly not since it was partly their fault that the real professor had been called away, and definitely their fault that he as on the outs.

Harry was half-expecting Riddle himself to pop up out of nowhere, by now, as he'd joked about to Ron. He didn't know what to do with himself, with a normal education. He, Ron, and Hermione studied diligently for the upcoming final exams (Ron had the added burden of needing to catch up on all the material he had missed, and too little time in which to do so). Hermione seemed to enjoy trying to tutor him; Harry wished her joy of it, but, as a workaholic, she was happy to have a challenging pupil.

Sirius Black made arrangements to come to Hogwarts, to speak with the headmaster about Harry, Harry's lodgings, and just what Sirius was supposed to do with himself, now that his name was cleared, and the Order of Merlin that had been given to Pettigrew had been destroyed, and Sirius had been awarded one in his place.

Dumbledore was firm that Sirius had to recover his strength, first, although he looked far less skeletal than before. He recommended that Sirius return to St. Mungo's. Sirius put his foot down, and insisted upon staying at Hogwarts for the rest of the year. "I'm his godfather, and I've already missed over a decade of his life. That's unacceptable," he'd said.

Dumbledore had either grudgingly agreed, or Sirius had once again found a way to go behind his back. They never seemed to be in the same place at the same time, which made it difficult to tell. Professor Dumbledore was busy with…something. Presumably, it had something to do with his responsibilities as headmaster. And Sirius seemed to spend quite a bit of time catching up with Professor Lupin. Most of the students gave him a wide berth, but not the Weasleys, or Ron, Harry, or Hermione. Since Professor Lupin would only be teaching until the end of the year, he quietly looked the other way, and "forgot" about the Marauder's Map.

He and Sirius were good for stories about James, back when he'd been in school. Harry had even learnt the reason for the fierce ire directed their way by Professor Snape. This was one of the "intelligent people do stupid things" instances Sirius had hinted to Harry about, when they first met, and he'd still been wearing tattered robes, instead of a black muscle shirt advertising some muggle band Harry had never heard of, and black jeans. He seemed delighted by how this dress style offended the purebloods.

He offered Harry a home again, more than once, but Harry thought of Mother, the connection to her sustained by the blood she shared only with Aunt Petunia, and held firm. He tried to explain it to Sirius, but the way in which Sirius laughed off Harry's refusals suggested that he didn't understand. Harry wasn't sure that he understood, himself, but he knew what Dumbledore had said.

Despite that small hurdle, Harry and Sirius became fast friends within that small window of time. Sirius's concern for Harry's happiness and well-being were foreign, but welcome. Harry felt that he'd found another adult that he could trust. These were few and far between. And the sorts of antics Sirius described him and his friends (Harry's dad among them) getting into at school, and the sorts of mistakes Harry knew him to have made, made Harry want to confide in him about the biggest secret he held. That was not, of course, his secret, alone, to bear, but when he cornered Ron to ask about it, Ron seemed to think the decision of whether or not to tell was Harry's choice to make. They both seemed to trust Sirius, although a nagging familiarity—a commonality of experience, perhaps—made Sirius easier to trust than anyone Harry had ever met before. Always before, the adults in Harry's life had let him down—except for Professor Lupin, and Dumbledore. Truly, this was an odd year.

Despite how much they trusted him, they left Sirius Black out of Hermione's end-of-year mad scheme.


	72. The Prophetess Speaks

**Chapter Seventy-Two: The Prophetess Speaks**

Buckbeak lost the appeal, and Malfoy nearly lost his life gloating about it. It was the only thing he had to gloat about, after Harry and company had thoroughly trounced Malfoy and his cronies in the last quidditch match of the season, thereby winning the quidditch cup for Gryffindor, at last. While this meant that the proverbial noose had loosened from around the collective necks of the quidditch team, it meant that Malfoy felt an increased need to vent his ire.

"But it's not murder if it's Malfoy," Harry protested, as Hermione glared at him, clenching her hand into a fist. "Besides, you slapped him; I don't see why you stopped Ron."

"Because Ron might have killed him, and you weren't stopping him," she said, rubbing her hand against her robes as if it stung. With a face as angular as Malfoy's, she might have poked herself. A glance over in Ron's direction showed him looking slightly sheepish, but not in the slightest bit self-conscious or remorseful. Harry couldn't blame him.

"We're going to end up killing Malfoy, sooner or later. Riddle is going to come back, and when that happens, Malfoy will waste no time signing himself up on the Death Eaters sign-ups list. Will you still defend him when you meet on opposite sides of the battlefield, I wonder."

"What do _you_ know?" Hermione snapped, recovering almost instantly from Harry's mention of Riddle. Ron must have seen Harry's expression darken, because he shot him a look that Loki had had to use on Thor all the time. It was somewhat disorienting to have the tables turned, thus, and that disorientation was enough for him to get a grip on himself. He should probably thank Ron, but he didn't, because there was no way to do this without both arousing Hermione's suspicion, and sounding ridiculous.

But Hermione was still coiled as tight as a spring. "Oh, we can't let them execute Buckbeak! We all know that Malfoy was faking his injury, and that Buckbeak was just acting according to his nature—hippogriffs attack when provoked, and, when you look at those beaks and talons, Buckbeak really held back! There must be something…yes, I think that might work, but what about—"

She rushed off to the library at this. They would not learn what she was on about for several days, as was typical of Hermione.

* * *

"Did _I_ get a trial?" Harry asked Ron. He'd gone all the way up to the Astronomy Tower to get away from everyone, so, naturally, Ron had followed him.

Ron frowned, but somehow knew precisely what Harry meant. He _did_ look remorseful, now, corners of his eyes turned down, head bowed, shoulders even set in a sort of slouch. Harry wanted to snap that he didn't blame him for not knowing about the whole…_Thanos_ thing, but suspected that if he said it flat out, it wouldn't help. Thor was a classic man of action, which seemed to mean that he believed something only if he saw it. This had often backfired spectacularly for him in the past, so this attitude was tempered somewhat by his previous experience with mortality on Earth. You know, the one that wouldn't happen for two decades.

"Ah…no," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation. He didn't ask why Harry had to ask; he must remember that Harry said he didn't remember anything after the end of the Invasion. "That is not how matters are settled in a kingdom. Father saw sufficient proof of your guilt to imprison you. It was not an indefinite sentence. Understand that he did not wish to do this, and that he fully intended to release you when he deemed that you were no longer a threat. He told me that it is one of the difficulties of being king—that the people must come first, before even those whom he loves, and that being just often gives the impression of cruelty."

"Ah," said Harry. "The difficult choices. That sounds an excuse. Did he ever even come visit?"

Thor's silence was answer enough. "It was not out of want of love for you, Brother," he said, at length. "There was but little time between your arrest, and the reappearance of the Aether. That was when they murdered Mother, and I—"

"Broke me out of jail to help you?" asked Harry. "Because you knew that I loved Mother, despite everything." He didn't remember the events, but he could guess, read between the lines.

"I needed to follow them, after they took Jane. I needed a means of traveling between the worlds without use of the Bifrost, and you…I knew that you had such a means. You knew secrets that none of us had discovered."

"A World-Gate," Harry said. "But I suppose you didn't ask your Father for permission—"

"He is your father, too," said Thor, all earnest enthusiasm and loyalty. "You know that he loves you as well as I."

Harry looked over the balcony, and realised that the ground was too far away. He had to turn away, with the stars shining bright overhead. There was too much bitter threat in their existence, so far removed from safety.

He considered Thor's words. Love. The Sorting Hat had told him that love was his guiding force—the guidance of his mother, the authority of his father. It had seen what he had missed, what Loki had forgot. Father, always so distant, always so difficult to please; he'd felt he'd had to work harder at that than anything else, just to be noticed.

But, sometimes, he'd succeeded. He had forgotten that. And if Odin favoured his natural son, he didn't realise it. He meant to be even-handed and fair, but if there was a certain distance there, perhaps it wasn't even in the difference between adopted children and natural ones. Perhaps, it was something else. Perhaps, he'd thought that Thor needed him more, impulsive and reckless as he was. Perhaps, he'd considered Loki his ally in trying to rein in Thor's impulses. It was all hypothetical. He couldn't know for sure: Loki had never asked. But, what did he think?

He remembered Mother, thought of Mother, and was unable to doubt the sincerity of her love. It was her strength, more than that of anyone else, which had brought him through this year. But Odin couldn't measure up to Harry's scant knowledge of James Potter, who had died defending his wife, only for her to die defending their son.

_Could_ he? He glanced around the room, but didn't see any of it. There were stars everywhere. He had to close his eyes.

"Thor, Brother, _please_," he begged. "I am still trying to comprehend everything else that has happened this year. It is very different from the last two years, is it not? Sirius, and Professor Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, the dementors…and then you. I have a father: James Potter. He may be dead, but all I know of him says that he deserves my respect. You seek too much of me, too soon. Give me time."

"He loved you no less than he loved me," Thor insisted, with that single-minded focus that often led him into trouble. Harry sighed, thinking back to all of those dangerous old memories.

"…I know," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "But, he is not here, now, listening to us. I have much to resent him for. Give me time, Thor. Are we not speaking now? Perhaps, in time, I will agree with your words, but for now…."

He spread his arms wide, and stepped away from the balcony, turning to face Thor. "Be patient. How often has haste availed you?"

Thor shook his head. "Then I shall ask you a question," he said, and Harry nodded. He knew the questions would eventually come. The chances that they were about anything other than the Invasion were infinitesimal. He braced himself, internally, whilst looking quite relaxed to all outward appearances.

"The Chitauri. Whence did they come?" This question had clearly plagued him for years. Harry looked back up at him, and the expression on his face could be mistaken for a smile, by those who didn't know him, who didn't know his background.

"What's this? Another way of asking who controls the would-be king?" he asked, tilting his head. He knew there were two ideas in Thor's head, two separate ideas, not quite touching. All Harry had just done was to bridge the two.

Thor recognised his own words, turned back on him once again. "'Controls'… then that means—"

Harry turned away, preparing for Thor to speak the name. He hadn't warned him yet that the danger was greater now than it had been before, with no thick barrier blocking off that corrupted part of his mind. But…it was _only_ his mind. Why, then…?

Perhaps out of consideration to Harry, Thor did not speak the name. Instead, he took advantage of Harry's lack of attention to cross over, and rest a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I should have seen it before," he said. "But, that means…those dreams, in first year…."

A series of disjointed thoughts. Harry took some time sifting through them. He refused to look at Ron.

"He knows how to use the Infinity Stones," he warned. "You had best be more careful. His mastery over the Mind Stone enabled him to…broaden his victims' horizons, shall we say?"

Thor sucked in a great breath, and gripped Harry's shoulder tight. "…He _brainwashed_ you?" Harry tried to shrug off that hand, but Thor, even in a mortal body, had an iron grip. He would not let the question go unanswered.

"Just like that friend of yours…what was his name?" The dreams were too sketchy here: he'd honestly missed the name, if ever it had been spoken.

"Clint Barton," Thor supplied, but his expression, when Harry chanced to glance at him, was distant.

"He will come to this world. He will come for me. I failed in the task he set to me, and he will not overlook the loss of the Mind Stone. Be thankful if Earth does not become his next conquest. He slaughters the half of the worlds he conquers, as if that restores some sort of cosmic balance, and calls it '_mercy_'. He thinks that he is doing a good thing. He thinks that he is doing them a kindness. Do you think that you can stop him?"

"Now that I know of his threat, I promise you this: _We_ will stop him. Together. We have always had more success, working as a team than at odds with one another. Are you willing to help me?"

Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head. "I will help, but the two of us won't be enough. We need the Avengers."

He hated voicing that admission aloud.

* * *

Things settled down with both Buckbeak's and Sirius's trials out of the way. But at the end of May, Buckbeak was slated for execution, which stirred Hermione into motion, offended by the mere idea of an innocent creature being murdered. The would-be executioner was on the list of exonerated Death Eaters, which inclined Harry towards assisting her, and Ron, of course, signed on to keep Harry out of trouble, to repay Hagrid, and just to placate Hermione, who seemed to feel a bit miffed, still, that she'd missed out on the Scabbers Incident.

Whatever Harry had been expecting of Hermione's big secret—and he'd given it little thought, with plenty of other things to occupy his mind over the course of the year—he hadn't expected it to be time travel. Perhaps he should have—how else could you attend three classes at once? But he hadn't expected it. And he'd even less expected Hermione to suggest that they break the law to save Buckbeak.

"He's innocent, just like Sirius," she said, with a somewhat wild-eyed expression. "He hasn't done anything wrong!" Now, she looked to be on the verge of tears.

"And time travel is the only way this can work?" Harry asked for what felt the hundredth time.

Hermione nodded vigorously. "I told you already, we need an alibi! Almost no one knows that I have a time turner, and everyone who knows me knows that I never do anything reckless or against the rules—although I sometimes get dragged into similar situations by my two best friends—" She shot them one of her patented, smugly superior looks. "They'd never suspect me!"

"They'd totally expect me," Harry said. "Perhaps you should just bring Ron with you. He's good at this sort of stuff."

No one in their right mind would choose Ron for a mission involving subtlety and care. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry, folding her arms. Yes, she was definitely spending too much time with Ron.

"Fine, fine. The year is not complete without us breaking the law, and a hundred school rules. I hope you've planned this thoroughly."

"Of course I have," Hermione said, smiling even as Ron looked down, as if it would tune out, and exempt him from, the discussion currently happening around him.

"Good," said Harry. "Because I have no idea where we could hide Buckbeak, or how to keep him from just returning to Hagrid's cabin, or how to explain to him that he has to go into hiding."

Hermione's mouth rounded into her familiar silent realisation. She almost never said the word, "oh", but it always accompanied her silently.

"Well, er," she foundered, searching for safe ground. Harry sighed.

"…I'll see what I can figure out," he said, running a hand through his hair, with a sigh. Of course, he'd have to do half of the work on Hermione's project.

But, he did figure out the answers to some of those problems. Sirius told them about a criminal friend of his, Mundungus Fletcher, who could take Buckbeak off their hands, and that Crookshanks knew the secret way into the passage under the Whomping Willow.

"It was built to help Remus with his transformations," Sirius said, in a low voice, as if the secret could still be kept. Judging by Snape's almost-smugness, he was the one to first out Remus as a werewolf. "We used it to sneak into and out of Hogwarts's grounds. I'll arrange for 'Dung to meet you in Hogsmeade. He may be shady, but he's loyal. Even if he gets caught, he won't sell us out. 'Course, I've been wrong about that before."

Harry left Sirius to his glum thoughts, torn between trying to figure out how to undo the damage Azkaban had caused to his soul, and who-knew-what-else, and trying to plan for the immediate future. Hermione was insistent that they had to save Buckbeak at the very hour he would otherwise be executed.

"Otherwise," she explained, with exaggerated patience, "The Ministry will think that Hagrid freed him."

Harry could have figured this out on his own, but he wisely kept that fact to himself. Most of his attention still was devoted to fixing the damage done to Sirius, although St. Mungo's was doing their best to treat him long-distance. Unfortunately, they had no prior experience to fall back on, and, worse, they didn't understand the effect dementors had on the soul. Harry thought a fix was probably up to him. He was forever cornering the resident expert (Professor Lupin), and Sirius, and then researching what had been discovered of the most similar symptoms he could find. But, Sirius Black was the first person to escape Azkaban, and the first to be left in their "care" (at their _mercy_) for an extended period of time, _without_ losing his mind.

References for even slightly similar events were few and far between.

Hermione continued to map out her plans for who would do what on the night of Buckbeak's "execution". Judging by her confidence, she'd run the plan past Dumbledore at some point. It was possible she hadn't, but Hermione's natural inclination was to obey authority figures, and she acted as if she had one backing her.

Of course, even as the execution crept closer, so too did final exams. They were the closer, and thus Harry spent progressively more of his time working on studying. He'd already reviewed quite a while in Ron and Professor Lupin's absence, but school still took precedence over his long-term project. Even as he studied, thoughts of his other research tended to intrude. It was while studying for History of Magic, after all, that he realised that legilimency would perforce be an integral part of any treatment program he might devise.

He came to the conclusion, sometime in the week preceding finals, that the closest they would come to an end-of-the-year threat or drama would be Buckbeak's rescue, although, as it turned out, Professor Lupin's obstacle course drove quite a few students to tears, including Hermione, who didn't quite manage to make her way through. Neither Harry nor Ron could work what it was that had so terrified her out of her, but thought that there might be some sort of hint in the way that she seemed reluctant to let either of them out of her sight for a second, over the rest of finals week.

Divination was a difficult subject to review for—there were no required materials for the course, bar the textbooks, which in turn made for no ability to practise. Only the true seers would be able to find a workaround; they scried in bowls and plates, doused with wands, read pumpkin juice or ordered tea from the kitchens (Harry hadn't realised that you could do this before, but anyone who could find the kitchens could make special requests of them, whoever it was, that worked there).

Despite his lack of practice, Harry had enough experience fabricating the sort of tale Professor Trelawney enjoyed hearing told to do well on his exam. He gave a long, intricate prophecy on the subject of Buckbeak, who often was on his mind owing to the fact that it was almost his execution date. If he was passing this class—and he knew that he was—he had also just passed his Divination exam. It wasn't that long, or that complicated, and hardly the sort of comprehensive test that you would expect from a competent teacher—but, as with Snape, while Trelawney clearly knew her stuff, she was a poor teacher of it. Of course, there was also the fact to consider that Divination was difficult to _teach_.

Harry shook his head to clear it. He'd already taken all the rest of his exams, and, combined with the perpetual haze of the Divination classroom, his mind was in a bit of a fog. It still occurred to him, as he was the last to take his Divination "exam", to stay behind to enquire as to the nature of prophecies, and prophetic knowledge.

Which was somewhat fitting, considering what happened next. He had packed his school satchel, and was slinging it over his shoulder, when Professor Trelawney spoke, in a harsh, guttural voice, quite different from her usual mystical whisper.

"_It will happen tonight_," she pronounced, in a deep growl of a voice, and Harry whirled back around to face her. He considered opening his seventh sense, would later regret not doing just that, for this was a unique experience. Trelawney stood there, unnaturally still, eyes rolled back in her head, and continued to intone her prophecy, for that was what Harry had swift realised that this was. "_The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, forsaken by his followers…. His servant has been chained these past twelve years…. Tonight, before midnight, the servant will set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was…. Tonight…before midnight…the servant will set out to rejoin his master…._"

She trailed off, as if whatever had caused her to speak had left her, and Harry realised that he'd stood there, frozen, listening to her recitation, unable to move or even properly to think. He should have opened his seventh sense—it might have given him an idea, at least, as to the nature and source of prophecy.

Then, his mind caught up to his ears, and he realised what she'd said.

"What happened? Why are you looking at me that way, my dear boy?"

He just kept staring. "You don't remember?"

Problems concerning memory happened disconcertingly often around him. As did unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities—providing they were negative.

"Ah, I must have passed out for a moment—this heat. You're such a dear for worrying about me, but I'll be fine."

He shook his head with some violence. "You just gave a prophecy," he said, somewhat disappointed that she didn't remember. It would have been nice to have _someone_ to confirm this news, which he knew had to be brought to Dumbledore's attention. And the Ministry's. There were plenty of "servants" of Lord Voldemort, even ones who had "been chained these last twelve years". It might not be Pettigrew.

However, given the Ministry's past record, he was the most likely to escape. The entire thing was bad, bad news.

"You said that You-Know-Who's servant would escape, and he would resurrect him—that You-Know-Who would 'rise with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was'—"

"I think you may have fallen asleep, too," said Trelawney, her tone suddenly sharp. She sounded almost human. "I would certainly not presume to predict something as far-fetched as that!"

"You said yourself: you can't control what or when you predict!" Harry retorted, wondering as he did why he was even bothering. "Don't accuse me of fabricating this just because you don't remember it when you give major prophecies!"

For some reason, she did not appreciate his pointing this out to her.

"I think you had better leave, Potter. Get some air," she said, her voice so firm, for a moment she could almost be mistaken for McGonagall.

Sensing that she would not be willing to discuss this, or to back him up, he headed straight for Dumbledore's office, regardless.

It took him only three tries to guess the password, this time, and he barely noticed, reciting the lines over and over to himself, trying to engrain them into his memory. Dumbledore needed to know. He had no memory, later, of knocking upon the door, or of opening it, or of sitting down. He was fairly sure that he gave Fawkes an absent-minded wave as a greeting, but most of his attention was fixated upon Dumbledore.

"Ah, Harry, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, and Harry leant forwards, pressing his hands against the wood of Dumbledore's desk, heedless of any spindly silver instruments in his way.

"Professor Trelawney…" he began. "I just came from her final exam—it's my last exam of term, you know, and I was the last one she tested. And then, she sort of went all…rigid and strange… I thought she was going to have a seizure, at first, you know? But she was speaking, in a harsh growl of a voice…I've never her heard her sound that way before…. She said: '_It will happen tonight_'…."

He shook his head, closed his eyes, tilted his head back, as if that would help him to recapture the memory. He recited the prophecy as best he could, eyes closed to avoid any distractions, but that just made him more aware of the little noises—the breathing of the portraits on the walls, the ruffling of Fawkes's feathers, the slight whoosh of air caused by the perpetual motion instruments. He thought he remembered the entire thing.

He opened his eyes to see Dumbledore's gaze fixed upon him with the gravest expression Harry had ever seen, from him.

"And to think, in the excitement of this year, I had forgotten what I promised to tell you at the end of last year, concerning the reason that Voldemort went after your family to begin with. You must forgive me, Harry, but the news you bring requires swift action. However…." He reached under his desk, and pulled out a silver basin, runes ringing the edges. On another day, Harry would have read them, and tried to discern their uses (if they weren't mere decoration; wizards too, did that, sometimes). For the moment, however, he just sat there, eyebrow raised, wondering what relevance this basin had. And what it was.

"This is a pensieve, Harry," Dumbledore said. The term sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn't know what it was. But he didn't say that.

"If you concentrate hard on a memory, and touch the tip of your wand to your temple, you will be able to extract that memory. If you put the memory in this pensieve, you will be able to view it as a detached observer, and even string such thoughts together…. If you would remember the experience you just had, if I could borrow your memory of what Professor Trelawney just said…it might help me to convince the Ministry to heed my warnings. They are less… reasonable, of late."

Ah. _That_ was why. Harry closed his eyes, concentrating hard on the fresh memory of Trelawney, packing up to go, and then the way Trelawney had spoken….

He detached the memory, and, with a flick of his eyes to Dumbledore's watchful gaze, detached it from his head and put it in the pensieve.

"I will return this memory to you afterwards, of course. The Ministry will want to duplicate it for their records…they have an entire room devoted to prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. But I digress. Go back to your friends, Harry, and I will keep you informed. I must thank you for delivering this report promptly."

He reached into the fireplace, and pulled down a jar of bright green powder, of which he threw a handful into his fireplace, crying, "Ministry of Magic!"

He stepped through, disappearing, leaving Harry alone in his office.


	73. To Save Buckbeak

**author's note:** Starting with book IV, I'll probably start posting once a week (on Tuesdays) to try and arrange the chapters of Book V in something resembling a sensible order. And to give myself time to finish the last two books, of course. Gives any readers a chance to catch up, too.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Three: To Save Buckbeak**

Of course, Harry's natural inclination was to speak with the Sorting Hat. It would be the first time he'd spoken to the Hat since…well, since the big confrontation. But he scowled as he realised that the Hat must have known all along—in both of their cases, and never said anything.

He blinked. _Hadn't_ it said that it kept these secrets for those it sorted? _For better or for worse, at great cost, with no reward possible_? Something to that effect. That was just proof of its words. Put that way, it was somewhat…reassuring.

It might have had the decency to tell him where his brother was, at least. Would that be asking too much?

And speaking of…he probably ought to tell Ron and Hermione this news…but somehow, he suspected that he'd just get drawn into Hermione's planning sessions. Perhaps, he should speak with Professor Lupin, Tonks, and Sirius instead…Tonks was an auror, perhaps she…?

The fact was, it was galling to be stuck here, safe at Hogwarts, not knowing what was going on. At least Dumbledore had promised to keep him informed. He'd just have to find something else with which to occupy his time. He knew that Hermione could be counted on to drag him into her plans.

He turned to Fawkes. "Do you suppose he'd mind, Guy?" he asked the phoenix, who, by now, probably could guess precisely what Harry was talking about. The bird just stared at him, and then gave a little trill, that he took for permission. But instead, full of a restless energy, he shrugged, and said, "I'm leaving. I have to accomplish something here."

Fawkes gave a sad little trill of farewell, and Harry made his way through the corridors to the Defence classroom with the same lack of attention that had brought him to Dumbledore's office.

Professor Lupin looked up as he appeared in the doorway. "Ah, Harry, come in," he said, with a smile. "I would have left by now, but tonight—and tomorrow night—are the full moon. I thought it best to take advantage of this, while I still could—"

"What's the matter, kiddo?" asked Sirius, rising to his feet and crossing the room. "Come in; sit down…you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Ghosts are all over Hogwarts," Professor Lupin pointed out. Sirius just smiled.

"It's a muggle expression, Remus. Isn't that right, Nymphie?"

"Call me that again, Black, and I hex you. Wotcher, Harry!" said the unfortunately named girl.

Harry glanced around the room as if he expected a wall of boggarts to show up and attack him.

"Well, today is the day slated for Buckbeak's execution—"

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten," Professor Lupin muttered, with a grimace.

"—but that misfortune pales in comparison to others. Do _you_ believe in the reality of foretelling the future?"

There was a pause, as everyone tried to understand his abrupt change of subject.

"I never really thought about it," Professor Lupin said diplomatically, taking a sip of the Wolfsbane Potion, and grimacing. He seemed otherwise to be relaxing, sitting at his desk, and taking some time to hang out with his friends. Harry thought he probably shouldn't have interrupted—but if anyone deserved to know about a potential breakout by Peter Pettigrew, it was these two, whose lives he had ruined.

"I think your Dad did," said Sirius. "He could make some convincing arguments for it, but I'm on the fence. Don't we make our own destinies?"

"You just say that because you're the odd Black out," said Tonks, rolling her eyes. "You always have to be different. But everyone in the House of Black has to learn all these long-standing traditions—prophecies have been around for a long time. And the Unspeakables clearly believe in them, or they wouldn't be researching them in the Hall of Prophecy. But what does this have to do with anything?"

Asking what an "Unspeakable" was could wait. It sounded like some manner of title.

"Professor Trelawney gave a prophecy that sent Dumbledore to the Ministry to check up on some things. I was there to hear her prophecy, and it sounded…bad. It seemed to concern Peter Pettigrew."

The sudden tension in the room was so taut and thick that you could cut it.

"That _traitor_?" snapped Sirius Black, looking quite different, almost deranged, with his head bowed, and his fists clenched. He'd cut his hair to about shoulder length, his clothes were typical muggle attire, and his fingernails were neat and even, and yet somehow he looked far more dangerous than he had on that first night. He didn't have his wand in his hand, but his eyes seemed to shoot sparks.

"A prophecy…are you sure? Professor Trelawney, er…didn't strike me as the type—" Professor Lupin said. His diplomacy was falling a bit flat in the wake of the sudden hard lighting of the room.

"It's the end of the school year," Harry said. "This sort of thing tends to happen. I shouldn't be surprised if I encounter a dementor of twelve before the day is out…even if they _have_ all returned to Azkaban."

Sirius paled a bit at the mention of the place, and Harry shot him an apologetic look.

"What was the prophecy?" asked Tonks, and Harry frowned. He couldn't remember her giving it, but he remembered what he'd told Dumbledore, and he could recite that.

"I gave Dumbledore my memory of the incident, to help him convince the Ministry—"

"As if that'll work," Sirius growled. "Incompetent fools! You saw how they handled my case—"

Sudden, complete silence, the kind that comes of a rising crisis that no one knows how to handle.

"Perhaps if I went to the Ministry—" Tonks suggested, casting worried glances around the room.

He'd done nothing but put them on edge.

"I just thought that you should know…keep your guard up." He wished he hadn't come, even as he knew that he had to. He spent some more time giving half-hearted suggestions as to what they should do, before he conceded defeat, and left.

* * *

The natural thing to do after witnessing a dangerous prediction was to seek out Ron and Hermione, and tell them what he'd witnessed. It was just as well that he'd gone to Dumbledore first, and then Sirius, Professor Lupin, and Tonks, because Hermione had scarcely lain eyes on him before she redirected his attention. Today was, after all, the day slated for Buckbeak's execution, and Hermione was a woman of single-minded focus. She'd even drawn Ron into things. He looked quite as long-suffering as Harry felt.

_Her_ plan went off without a hitch, unless you counted the natural difficulties in trying to convey your intentions to an animal. There was a certain language barrier. Hippogriffs were probably aware of the concept of death, but probably less aware of the existence of murder or execution, and even less how to plan to save yourself from those. He knew that Hagrid took care of him, and loved him, and Hagrid's tears and wailing made him strain against the rope.

But the rope was being held by Ron, so there was one fewer hurdle in their line-up. Few creatures in this world had the physical strength and stamina to drag Ron anywhere against his will. The reverse was not as true. Once Ron had bowed to Buckbeak, received Buckbeak's approval, and led him into the woods, they had to keep still and quiet, watching the cabin closely to see who came and went, and listening in to hear what they decided.

He had not expected Dumbledore's presence, but it _had_ been several hours since he'd issued his warning. Still, it was most likely not a good sign that Fudge had come, in person, to see to the execution of Buckbeak, instead of staying behind in the Ministry. That seemed to suggest that their priorities were somewhat…_skewed_

At last, they left. Dumbledore's suggestion that they "search the skies" was one of the last comments anyone made before they all left the cabin to head back to the castle. Hagrid was about to get very drunk to celebrate Buckbeak's escape which _he_ thought was Buckbeak untying his own rope (knots are very unreliable things), when, unless Harry was much mistaken, Dumbledore had just covered for them.

Hermione was smug about the entire matter, even before Buckbeak was safe. Harry quietly reminded her that they still needed to get Buckbeak to Mundungus Fletcher, somehow, and she wrinkled her nose at the name of a man she'd never even met. She knew that he was a thief and a criminal, and, although what they were doing right now was, technically speaking, illegal, that didn't make her any more inclined to accept a thief—even one who was doing her a favour, had fought against Riddle in the last war, and who greatly admired (and was steadfastly loyal to) Dumbledore.

Hermione was exactly the sort of person who never noticed her own hypocrisy, Harry mused as they led Buckbeak at a muffled trot over towards the Whomping Willow. Crookshanks glared at them as they approached, as if to ask them what had taken so long, before darting over the tree, and pressing a paw to its trunk. They could have used one of its fallen branches, but that was much more difficult to do—aiming through those lashing limbs without getting close enough for it to strike you—and Sirius had already taught Crookshanks the secret; might as well make use of it.

They waited until they were well along the path to the Shrieking Shack to relax even slightly. It would be a bit of a trick, getting out of the Shack, with all of its doors and windows boarded up, but Harry knew that, between him and Hermione, they could manage. If Ron didn't just knock the door down, or something. It was the sort of thing he would do.

Because there was no _true_ rush, Harry was able to prise the boards off the door (with Ron's help, of course) and shift them to the side. He had no idea how they were going to replace the boards again without a hammer, but decided that saying such a thing was probably not the best idea. It was also entirely possible (or absurdly likely?) that Ron had managed to bring his pet hammer with him when he was incarnated as a human, and—

Yes, those were thoughts best left for another time. Judging by the appearance of The Burrow, however, there were magical means of replacing those boards. If this activity was truly sanctioned by Dumbledore, he would probably arrange to have those boards fixed before anyone could discover the tunnel leading to Hogwarts. Which did not mean that he, Ron, and Hermione would just leave the boards hanging loose around the frame of the door.

Mundungus Fletcher was one of those patrons of the Hog's Head who wore a cowl over his face, the ones that Hagrid had mentioned so casually in first year. Harry could see a pair of extremely baggy eyes, a chin covered with stubble, and surprisingly full lips, under a rather long nose. But not all at the same time, as the cloak worked hard to keep his profile in shadow.

The bartender glared over in their direction, occasionally, as if knowing that they were not supposed to be there, which seemed plausible, but Mundungus Fletcher assured them, in his rather rough and scratchy voice, that the old man never breathed a word of his dealings before. Also, he apparently had been a member of Dumbledore's old Order, too. Those people were suddenly coming out of the woodwork, which was probably just as well, given—

Oh. Now, with Buckbeak off their hands, and the immediate task of trying to repair the Shrieking Shack to look forward to, Harry remembered the prophecy. But he knew that it was pointless to mention it to Hermione—she'd just scoff, and right now she was radiant with her triumph. Her thundercloud of hair, even, seemed to be glowing. He wouldn't ruin it for her with talk of things she didn't believe in.

At the same time, it seemed wrong to only tell Ron. He considered the matter on the way back to the Shack.

The next step was transfiguring items they found on the way into tools they could use for construction. They'd have to tell Dumbledore about their efforts…and maybe Sirius, Professor Lupin, and Tonks could help them instead, but for now, they needed just anything of around the same shape and size as hammers and nails. Rocks and sticks worked well enough, for the moment. It was only a stopgap measure, after all.

Harry picked up a rock hammer, and shot a glance, aside, at Ron. He thought the entire thing was hilarious, but Ron didn't seem to agree. Perhaps it made him nostalgic.

Hermione didn't know to comment on the quick work Ron made of the entire task. Harry was sure that nails were supposed to take a great deal more blows to sink in. Despite this, he knew that Ron and Hermione were both listening to what he remembered of the prophecy. Hermione, of course, was dismissive, Ron far less. He seemed troubled, and were it anyone else, Harry would fear that he'd hit his thumb with the hammer accidentally. But he hadn't forgotten who Ron was.

After they'd finished, they had to return to Hogwarts, cross the grounds without attracting attention, and somehow sneak back into Gryffindor Tower, where they were supposedly fast asleep. For this part of the journey, Harry pulled out the invisibility cloak, to hide them from prying eyes, and the Map, and they emerged back into the night, where Crookshanks was waiting. He twined around their legs, purring, and then stopped the Whomping Willow, so that they could head back into the castle.

It was difficult to believe that this was the cat who had caused Ron and Hermione's quarrels. Really, though, with Scabbers revealed to be a villain (or at least a minion), that made Crookshanks into the hero's sidekick, always an auspicious role. Neville had even forgiven the cat for getting him a week of detentions (after Crookshanks was revealed to have stolen the passwords, the detentions were canceled, which helped). Sir Cadogan was still in charge of passwords for the moment, which was always a bit of a hurdle to cross, but it was always amusing to watch Ron and Sir Cadogan interact. Harry wished that they'd met earlier, but he'd just enjoy it while he could. Ron always seemed a bit…diminished, after a chat with Sir Cadogan.

It was a bit less amusing when they were this pressed for time, but nothing much could be done about the matter. Sir Cadogan had insisted that the Fat Lady had forfeited her position for the year, and that therefore he, the stalwart defender of the young and the innocent, had taken up the standard, defending the Tower with steely courage, and….

Sir Cadogan had never shown any such ability, of course, but he _had_ been the only portrait to volunteer for the job, and Dumbledore had elected to humour him. Harry was confident that he wouldn't even remember the three of them passing through, late at night, on the last day of term. He'd keep silent, for rather different reasons from the Fat Lady. That was all that mattered to them, for the moment.

* * *

No one could discover how Buckbeak had escaped, a week later, perhaps because they were too busy focusing on the breakout from Azkaban Fortress. Peter Pettigrew had somehow escaped in the middle of the night. Probably, the fact that he hadn't been put in a cell specially designed for animagi assisted in this ("He was in temporary holding there, surrounded by dementors—we were about to move him to a proper cell, but these things take a while to prepare", a flustered Fudge was reported to have said). Harry threw the paper across the table in disgust.

"Well," he said, putting quite a bit of emphasis into the word. He thought it sufficient response. He felt Ron's gaze land on him, more troubled than it had been in months. _The Dark Lord will rise again... greater and more terrible than ever he was…_.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin breached protocol by joining them at the gryffindor table. Technically, Professor Lupin was no longer a professor, which meant that he couldn't get in trouble for it—he no longer even had the authority to award points.

"I see you've heard the news," said Professor Lupin. He sounded tired, and his voice was hoarse and creaky. He put his head in his hands, looking down at the table, as the gryffindor students in Harry's vicinity turned to look at their strange little corner.

"I should have let you kill him," Harry said to Sirius. "This is what comes of showing _mercy_." The way he spat out the last word made Ron glance over at him, and then move over to be ready to act at a moment's notice. Harry, in other circumstances, would have rolled his eyes, but he honestly didn't know how to react.

"It's not your fault, kiddo," Sirius said. "You were right. If I'd killed Peter, I'd have gone back to Azkaban…old Voldy's still got plenty of supporters there. If it wasn't him, the prophecy could have been about any of the other Death Eaters… chained in different ways. These things have a way of coming true, I suppose. Don't tell Tonks I said that. Look, kid, Harry, don't blame yourself for this. You made the right choice…_I_ wasn't thinking straight."

"But…if Riddle rises again…that makes it my fault."

"Then it's definitely my fault that your folks died," Sirius said, staring him down. Harry'd worked particularly hard to make Sirius stop blaming himself for just this—it was in the way of his recovery. Fool knew it, too. Harry decided that he hated talking to smart people. He liked being the one who knew how to talk people into corners, and hated having it turned back on him. But Sirius meant well. Harry sighed.

"Pettigrew owes you his life," Remus said, looking thoughtful. "That gives you a bit of leverage over him—something about bonds of spirit…I'll have to look it up…."

"Why did I bother telling Dumbledore?" asked Harry. "Are the Ministry always this inept?"

"Pretty much," agreed Sirius.

"But we're here for you, all the way," Hermione said, eyes suspiciously bright. Ron sighed, running a hand through his hair, and shot Harry a glance.

"Will you be alright?" he asked. "I might remind you that I, too, was present when Peter Pettigrew revealed himself."

Harry gave a bitter laugh. "As if I could forget. Very well, then, I understand what all of you are saying."

"Good," Hermione said, in a manner that stated in no uncertain terms that the discussion was closed.

"All that we can do is to be ready when Riddle rises again," Ron said, folding his arms, and frowned.

"He never escaped without help," Sirius snarled. "We should pursue that lead, I suppose. But I _am_ concerned about you being alone at the Dursleys—"

"I have the Weasleys checking up on me every week," Harry said, glancing at Ron, who looked deep in thought. There was a time when he would probably have mocked Ron for that—or not _Ron_, per se—anyway, things were different, now, and the world was about to be upended, again. At least he had forewarning, this time.


	74. The Other Prophecy

**Chapter Seventy-Four: The Other Prophecy**

Everything was chaos in the wake of Pettigrew's escape, both within, and without, the castle. Percy was so distraught and distracted by the news that he begged to have his N.E.W.T.s postponed for a second time. He seemed to be convinced that Pettigrew would come after him, particularly, and Harry had to wonder just what Percy had said in his testimony. He'd never been closer to feeling pity for what was usually the bossiest and most arrogant of the Weasleys.

Fred, George, and Ginny were nothing diminished, but they did seem to feel that Ron was in a certain amount of danger, which was utterly ridiculous. Neville was almost in hysterics at the realisation that the man who had only been arrested because Crookshanks had stolen the passwords Neville had written down (so _that_ was how Sirius had gotten in) was now at liberty to take his revenge. Sirius and Professor Lupin spent a great deal of time in conference with Headmaster Dumbledore.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione couldn't catch a break. This, so soon after successfully rescuing Buckbeak, and the knowledge that Pettigrew's escape anticipated Riddle's return….

Harry continued his research into treating Sirius Black's trauma, but he thought he'd just about exhausted Hogwarts's knowledge, which was hardly extensive. For the most part, the information he was there for was in the Restricted Section, and it was all fragmentary references to reactions and attempted rescues from long-forbidden curses. He was only able to research these at all because Professor Lupin had written him a note, before he'd stopped being a member of Hogwarts's staff. Harry had sorted through these volumes, first.

For the most part, he sensed that he'd probably be creating his own cure, from scratch. It would take _years_, so he'd better start now. Even the pure energy of the _other_ kind of magic would do little to cut down on the time that this would take. It was all a careful admixture process anyway, requiring a multi-faceted approach. If only there were someone with whom he could confer…. It was true that Mother was some help with his efforts, but it was also true that once a month was far from sufficient for planning. Still, with the threat of dementors gone, she'd resumed his lessons in healing, which was nothing if not directly relevant to his situation.

Ron had clearly managed to pass his final exams, with help from Hermione, but Harry thought he should have gotten a free pass—or at the very least an extension. Then again, cumulative exams were designed to show that students had been studying and practising what they'd learnt over the course of the semester. Harry hoped that Hermione hadn't forced him to review for Hagrid's class, which, with Hagrid moping about Buckbeak's impending execution, had been less than inspired.

Recent events had shoved Professor Dumbledore's promise to the side of Harry's mind. He was too busy with everything else, including the planning he'd picked back up on what might possibly be done to stop Thanos. The knowledge of a threat returning from beyond the grave had reminded him of the notes he still had in his trunk, which required some editing, but were still valid. For the most part.

Between his research, planning, hanging out with Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Ron, and Hermione, Harry was quite busy, anyway—and it was almost time to go back to the Dursleys (a truly appalling thought). The last thing he was expecting, although he should have been, was to be called to Dumbledore's office for a chat.

Well, no, not for a chat. He knocked, was bidden enter, and opened the door to see Dumbledore, pensieve out, sitting behind his desk, looking haggard and worn. The Ministry had kept calling him out to London to try to mop up some of the mess that had resulted from Pettigrew's escape. Fudge was not quite so confident and arrogant now, talking about more dementors being sent to Hogwarts the following year.

This time, Dumbledore put his foot down, and dementors were banned from the grounds. He was taking advantage of Fudge's current standing in public opinion, his more deferential air, the respect that the Wizarding World had in Dumbledore. Harry could respect that. Dumbledore was perhaps not showing the wear as much as most people his age would have under such pressure. Harry could respect that, as well.

"I was told that you wished to speak to me, sir," Harry prompted, as he entered. He paused, to turn to Fawkes. "Hello, Guy. Good to see that burning days aren't too common for you, eh?"

Fawkes gave a sleepy trill, and didn't lift his head out from under his wing. Harry supposed he understood the sentiment. He glanced at the Sorting Hat, again fighting the impulse to have a nice long chat with it. Although….

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore. "Please sit. Lemon drop?"

There may have been a slight, absent smile on his face as he, with a murmured thanks, took one of the candies, and unwrapped it. So much changed since he had come for the first time! He waited. Dumbledore took a candy, himself, and then steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing.

"What I have to tell you is not easy for me to say," Dumbledore said, voice grave. A glance at his expression showed a troubled frown, and eyes devoid of any twinkle. "I wished to protect you from this knowledge for as long as possible," he admitted, and Harry tensed, fists clenching. Great. Just what he needed. More secrets. At least he'd been aware that this one existed; he still remembered asking Dumbledore about the reasons for Voldemort going after his family, his first year. He'd just forgotten that that was the particular secret Dumbledore had promised, at the end of _last_ year, to share with him. Well, at least Dumbledore was coming clean without it being forced from him.

"'Knowledge is power'," Harry said. "If you share this knowledge with me, I will be better equipped to face what lies ahead."

Dumbledore cast a shrewd glance aside in his direction. "You are full of wisdom for one so young. Yes, you're right…this knowledge might empower you…but it carries a burden with it. I wanted to keep that burden from your shoulders for as long as possible.

"But I have heard that you are studying, teaching yourself occlumency. A useful skill to have, and it will help you to keep the knowledge I am about to impart from untrustworthy ears. And I must ask you not to share what I am about to tell you with anyone. I will inform your godfather, myself. Voldemort is a master legilimens, and this knowledge he would dearly like to have, for it concerns the nature of his defeat. Now that you know occlumency, you stand a chance of keeping the knowledge from him.

"More than that, when you first arrived here at Hogwarts, three years ago, you seemed so small, so fragile, that I could not bear the thought of laying such a burden on your shoulders. But, at the end of the year, I found that I had misjudged you, underestimated you. You had faced off against Voldemort, and lived. Clearly, you were stronger than you originally had seemed, both of mind, and of body. And then you asked me the question that I knew you someday must: Why had Voldemort attempted to kill you when you were a baby? Such a shrewd question for a child to ask, but it was so early, too early. You were still so young…I wanted to protect you for a bit longer.

"Perhaps you see where this is going. I made the mistake that many old men make—underestimating the young,—and the one which Voldemort particularly despises: I cared about you. I valued your happiness over the cause I sought to protect. I tried to protect you even from threats I knew you would someday have to face. What did I care if the rest of the world burnt, if _you_ were safe and happy? …Such a foolish thought. I should have known better, that first year, after you saved the Philosopher's Stone from Quirrell. I should have told you, then. It took your reaction to Lockhart and the basilisk to see how hollow my attempts to protect you were. But for the sake of my conscience, I still waited for another year. I told myself that I could talk myself into the righteousness of this conversation, in only a year. But I hoped that you would forget to remind me. Selfish of me, not even to consider that you should be the one to choose. Foolish not to think that you knew your own limits better than I."

Harry had no idea what to say. It did sound rather as if Dumbledore were still dithering. He might have to say something, to bring the conversation on track.

"And then, you told me of the second of Professor Trelawney's predictions…I knew as soon as I heard the words that I could delay no longer. I had seen for myself your ability to rise to the occasion. What is love without trust? If I cared about you as much as I thought I did, then I would have to trust you with this knowledge, burden though it was. And that brings me to my point. For Professor Trelawney gave but one other prophecy than the one you witnessed in the Divination classroom. Ah, yes, and I should return that memory to you."

He held out a vial of what seemed to be silver glitter. "Poke your wand through the open bottle, until it touches the thought stored within. Then draw the thought back into your temple."

Harry opened the vial, and did as he was told, carefully extracting the thought, and placing it back into his own mind. Such a strange idea, that he could have given up a memory, only to recover it at a later date. Wizarding society was _weird_.

"Don't worry. The Department of Mysteries now has this prophecy on file. Only those about whom a prophecy is given can touch them, and only the actual prophecy is stored. It is labeled using a complicated system of initialing. I believe the label for that memory is… 'S. P. T. to H. J. P. concerning H. P. and L. V. II'—plenty abbreviated, and the Roman Numerals threw a few people off."

"Why is there that number II?" asked Harry. "Does that mean that it's the second prophecy concerning Voldemort and me? But it wasn't even really about Voldemort…."

Dumbledore sighed, and folded his arms loosely on his desk. He looked haggard and worn. "Indeed, it is considered to be the second prophecy your Professor Trelawney made concerning you and Lord Voldemort. They put it with the older prophecy because they are both prophecies in the greater scope of the blood wars waged by Voldemort. Peter Pettigrew is not an important enough figure, when the prophecy also mentions Voldemort."

Ah, yes. Well, that made sense, Harry supposed. And why did he think he knew whither this was headed?

"And the first prophecy?" he asked, gaze downcast.

Dumbledore sighed, yet again. "It was almost fifteen years ago that I heard that first prophecy—the only other prophecy Professor Trelawney has made, to my knowledge. I was considering cutting the course of Divination from the curriculum entirely, but Professor Trelawney had submitted her application, and her credentials were quite high—a descendant of a quite famous seer, named Cassandra (no, not that Cassandra), and I decided to give her a chance. I was less than impressed at our first meeting. I thought to myself 'Divination, then, is a waste of our resources, after all'. I turned to leave."

Harry tensed, anticipating what would come next. Dumbledore did not seem to notice, lost in his memories of that night. There was some part of his mind that told him that he should find a way to thank Trelawney—but for her sudden, and doubtless alarming, performance, the course of Divination would not exist at all, and that would have been quite the barrier to Harry's attempts to research the subject. If nothing else, that it was taught at Hogwarts ensured that Flourish and Blotts had textbooks and other reference materials on the subject. It kept the practice alive. But for the most part, his attention was directed to Dumbledore's story. The old man would get to his point…eventually. The background information was probably also quite important.

"I had reserved a room at the Hog's Head, a tavern in Hogsmeade owned by my estranged brother, Aberforth—I don't think I've mentioned him to you before. Hmm." There it was again: life laughing at him. Well, let this be a cautionary tale for him then. Dumbledore's deliberate levity suggested that he was not so indifferent to his estrangement as he wanted Harry to believe.

"The problem with the Hog's Head, as perhaps you are aware, is that it receives all manner of customers. On that night, unfortunately, the prophecy given by Professor Trelawney was overheard—at least in part. To protect her, and as a reminder that I, too, have my biases, and lessons left unlearnt, I offered her the position at Hogwarts for which she sought.

"Personal experience should tell you some of the shock I felt when her voice changed, and she stood there, so still…she seemed almost otherworldly. There was a definite difference to her presence. I knew what I was witnessing, as you did, and knew that I must pay attention. Perhaps that is why I did not notice the spy in time to prevent him from hearing as much as he did of the prophecy. That is my fault. He brought his knowledge of the incomplete prophecy to Voldemort, and because of that prophecy, Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a baby. To him, your parents were collateral damage—you were his true target. All because of that prophecy. I suspect, when he returns to full power, he will attempt to hear the full prophecy for himself—and as it is about him, he is one of only two people who could touch that prophecy without suffering grievous mental injury. You are the other, naturally."

Harry was running out of patience. He could see what Dumbledore was setting up, how important it was to set the stage, but curiosity was eating him up. Just what was this crucial prophecy? He realised that he'd crossed his arms at some point, which probably made him look a petulant two-year-old—or like Dudley (not that there was much difference). He made a concerted effort to relax.

"Then, this prophecy is the reason for everything that came after," he said. "Its mere existence a burden, but perhaps even more of a burden, the knowledge of the future it contains. And it has yet to be fulfilled."

Dumbledore looked incredibly grave, again. "Part of it _has_ been fulfilled. Listen to it, and see what you make of it."

He prodded the silver liquid in the pensieve, which Harry had quite forgotten about, and a misty figure rose up, wrapt in her gauzy shawls and too-big spectacles, covered in bangles. She looked much the same, if slightly younger, than the professor who loved to predict his death. She spoke:

"_The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord approaches…. Born to those who have thrice defied him; born as the seventh month dies…. And the Dark Lord shall mark him as an equal, but he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not…. And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live, while the other survives…. The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord shall be born as the seventh month dies…._"

Harry was quite glad that the Hogwarts uniform covered his arms, hiding the goosebumps spreading up and down his arms at her pronouncements.

And it struck him, then, as unlikely that he'd chosen Divination as one of his two elective classes, and it turned out that he would not only witness a prophecy being uttered, but also, unwitting, be the subject of one. Mostly, however, he drank in the words of the prophecy, trying to set aside all the experiential excess that came of witnessing it secondhand. How many prophecies did the average prophet give in his lifetime, anyway? How many others might be? Did they, too, concern him? He understood Dumbledore's impulse to keep Trelawney close, that had paid off in the end.

He frowned, puzzling over the words of the prophecy. "Well," he began, "the prophecy refers to a child born at the end of the seventh month—that is to say, July. Thanks to English's grammatical structure, it doesn't tell if that child is a boy or a girl…but I suppose you have cause to believe that it refers to me."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, as if perhaps he hadn't taken grammar into account. But Harry was not an expert on prophecy, any more than Dumbledore was. They were both using a system of assumptions, their own different backgrounds, to assist them in interpreting. And, given his proclaimed derision for divination, he doubted that Dumbledore had taken the class, if indeed it had even been on offer a century ago, or whenever Dumbledore had been in school. Harry's limited experience in the subject did not give him an edge, so much as entangle him with minutiae.

"Perhaps it's that first part: '_born to those who have thrice defied him_'. I would suppose, from my own experience, that not many survived to defy him thrice."

"And yet there _were_ another set of parents, expecting a son at the end of July. I am speaking, of course, of Neville Longbottom, and of his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom."

Harry blinked. Well, that was unexpected. Another candidate? Neville as the Boy-Who-Lived? What would have happened, then? Would he and his Mother have lived out their lives, never remembering the past—Lily Evans hadn't remembered until after she'd died, which meant that he would probably have been the same. Thor would have kept his secret—would Harry have ever learnt the truth? And did that—the fact that he remembered—mean that he'd in truth _died_, that Hallowe'en night? Didn't it have to?

He deliberately wrenched himself away from those thoughts, resolving to think on it more later, knowing full well that he'd go out of his way to avoid just that.

"Neville?" he asked. "He never speaks of his parents…I didn't even know that he was born at the end of July…."

Suddenly, he was stricken by the irrational thought that his roommates were all keeping big secrets from him. Had he given Neville so little notice that he didn't even know his birthday?

…Then again, when was Ron's? Sometime in March?

"Looking at Neville's burdens as they are, I think perhaps I'm better suited to being the Boy-Who-Lived. That grandmother of his…always pushing him so hard, but not giving him the means to fulfil her wishes. Did you know that he doesn't even use his own wand?"

He took the effort to return to the prophecy at hand. He'd given Dumbledore plenty of room in which to supply information, if he'd wanted to, concerning Neville's situation. Harry would have to seek out answers from Neville, himself. Which was probably best, anyway.

"…_'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal_'—that would seem to suggest that Riddle thinks that I'm…well, like him, as he pointed out at the end of last year. Unless…." He lifted up his bangs, revealing the lightning-bolt scar. A mark. Shaped like a bolt of lightning, but that was a train of thought for pursuit another time (Ron's protection, from afar? A coincidence? Thor, the Protector of Man? Ron had, most likely quite deliberately, never spoken of it).

"Yes. Voldemort considers you a true threat, perhaps his equivalent amongst the light wizards, with your similar pasts and experiences. Accidentally, I increased your similarities. I understand that neither of you had the happiest childhoods."

That explained Riddle's reluctance towards returning to the orphanage.

"Then, he already has marked me as his equal—that is what you meant by part of the prophecy being fulfilled already. But the last line: _Either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…._'. Hmm. I suppose that means that I'm now the only one who can defeat him…and it seems every near-death experience I've ever had has centred on him. I'm not too reassured by the hint towards certain immortality in that line. Does that mean that I _can't_ die, except by his hand? And that he can't die, for some reason, except by mine? And that about… _neither can live while the other survives_'."

It was all quite distressing, and he was unable to stop himself from dragging gods into the mix. Did wizards have a means to make themselves immortal? But there was the Philosopher's Stone. If there were one way, there might well be another.

Why would _he_ be the only one who _could_ kill Riddle, anyway?

Dumbledore sighed, and looked his gravest. He seemed to have decided to take pity on Harry, helping his thoughts along. "Perhaps you have forgotten, last year, that we were discussing you and Lord Voldemort, and I told you that I believed that he had put a bit of himself in you, the night he gave you that scar."

It connected. The scar, the one that marked him as the Dark Lord's equal, the taint of the Dark Lord's soul, anchored to Harry by a rotten-looking, blackened plant in the forest outside of his mother's garden. He didn't know the relevance, but it was this fragment that marked him as different from everyone else…the reason that they were trapped in a nasty _ouroboros_—the symbol of infinity.

Right. Life was still laughing at him. Got it. Somehow, having a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head was enough to bind them in an endless circle. Unless one succeeded in killing the other. And Riddle couldn't have known about it, or he wouldn't have kept trying to kill Harry.

He reached up to touch the scar on his forehead. Not a sign of protection, then, but a curse—as he had been told. A curse that prevented Riddle from dying, but Harry doubted that he had that luxury. But perhaps, just perhaps, he was wrong. Perhaps that fragment of soul had kept him from dying, that Hallowe'en night—or had dragged his soul back from death. Maybe it _wasn't_ Fawkes who had resurrected him last year. Sure, he'd died at least twice, but neither time had taken, for long.

What did he do with this information?

"In some sources, you will see that the Wizarding World has elected to call you 'the Chosen One', despite knowing nothing of this prophecy. They believe that you are the only one who can save them, and that in turn feeds the prophecy. It is the nature of hero worship, I'm afraid."

Hero _worship_. Ah, great. And speaking of….

"Just so you know, I'm going to tell Ron and Hermione all of this," he said. He hated when people kept big secrets about him from him, and these two were trustworthy, if anyone was. "Not necessarily immediately, mind you, but before the war begins again. I think they deserve to know, after all that we've been through. And, if you hadn't already said you'd tell him, I would have included Sirius."

Dumbledore was at his most inscrutable. His face appeared quite passive and blank, without his usual twinkle. "I prefer to involve as few underage wizards as I can in this war," he said at last, with a heavy sigh. "However, there is no denying that your friends have already been drawn into the thick of it. I will inform Sirius Black, as I have already said. As long as you ensure their silence, you may tell whomever you feel necessary. I trust your judgement, Harry."

He considered saying that no one in their right mind trusted him on anything. But he kept silent, still turning over the prophecy, and how neatly he'd avoided talking about "_the power he knows not_". He didn't want to _think_ what that might mean.


	75. To the Promise of a Better Future

**Chapter Seventy-Five: To the Promise of a Better Future**

Harry cornered Ron and Hermione as soon as his conversation with Dumbledore ended. The headmaster had given him almost no time at all between revealing all this information to him, and sending him back to Privet Drive. But he could hardly be blamed for that—he had almost certainly intended to tell him weeks ago, but Pettigrew had messed things up, as usual.

Hermione surprised him by acknowledging that, if she had once been wrong about Professor Trelawney, she was willing to accept _this_ prophecy. After all, sources all agreed that the date of Pettigrew's escape was the same one as that of the final exam for Divination. Part of her sudden tolerance was also the fact that she'd dropped a few classes, and would no longer have to bear the brunt of constant time travel. It must have been a weight off of her mind. Harry considered telling her to discuss the nature of the troubles of time travel with Ron, but knew better.

Hermione treated the new prophecy with the gravity it deserved. Ron took it perhaps _too_ seriously, if that were possible. He had to be the one to make the comment that the prophecy sounded as if Harry would need to die in order for Voldemort to be defeated. This made Hermione gasp and cover her mouth, and Harry bow his head, refusing to acknowledge the sentiment behind the statement.

No matter how he trusted Hermione, he waited until he could be sure of talking to Ron alone before he discussed the other things he'd noted, but kept to himself. Such as his suspicion that he'd died as a baby, and that that was why he remembered. And the discussions of what was intended by "_the power the Dark Lord knows not_" could go on for days. "Dumbledore thinks it's love," he said, although he hadn't confirmed this with the headmaster. "However, I must wonder, now that I know the truth…."

This was how Ron learnt that Harry had access to Asgardian magic. That he hadn't mentioned it before to Ron, nor ever used it around him, had completely slipped Harry's mind—perhaps in quite a deliberate fashion. Harry Potter rarely discussed _magic itself_ with Ron Weasley, and Thor had never cared to listen to Loki about the subject. It hadn't occurred to him that this had changed.

But Ron would be the first to admit that magic was very difficult, and Asgardian magic thrice as hard, with its emphasis on focus, and the lack of rigid rules that characterised wizarding magic, making it easier to cast spells whilst limiting the spells that could be cast. Of course, Ron's experience with the _other_ kind of magic, as Harry persisted in calling it, was his attempts to use Mother's spell. And of course, as Odin had given Thor the handcuffs he'd used on Peter Pettigrew, it had been their shared mother, Frigga, who had taught him that spell. If Molly Weasley had known such a spell, she wouldn't have needed to keep such a close eye on her kids. Or the clock that told the status of each member of her family.

Of course, such thoughts naturally raised the question of how Ron and Harry were related. _Were_ they related? Thor was the natural son of Frigga, and Loki was his adopted younger brother. That was straightforward.

But Harry was the natural son of Lily Evans, who was sort-of Frigga, which meant that _Thor_ Thor was sort-of his biological half-brother. But then, too, Ron Weasley had his own family, completely unconnected to Asgard, which had sort-of adopted Harry, in what Harry suspected was a deliberate echoing on Ron's part of previous events.

The entire thing was a tangled, complicated mess, in ways that shouldn't be possible. He was fairly sure that, no matter how you calculated things, he wasn't related to Fred and George, or Percy, which meant that he wasn't related to Ginny. That was something. But there was a certain edge even to this small mercy, for he was certain that none of the Weasleys knew about Ron's true identity.

Was that why Ron avoided the topic of the Mirror of Desire? He remembered Ron speaking of it, first year. He'd said that his family "was also more complete than it should have been". At the time, Harry'd assumed that he was speaking of the Prewetts, Fabian and Gideon, whose names he'd come across later. As Molly Weasley's brothers, they were Ron Weasley's family. But not Thor's.

This was what caused him to realise that Ron was deliberately avoiding the entire situation. Thor didn't _want_ to figure out what his connection was to the rest of the Weasleys. He didn't want to decide whether or not they were just as much his family as Harry was. But there was a silent assumption that they in fact were. Perhaps that was enough, for him.

He refused to discuss the subject at all, which probably wasn't very healthy. He'd have to confront it, eventually. What happened, after all, when he reached the endpoint—that point of time when he'd first gone back in time? Logically, one way or another, that future Thor would disappear. Ron would probably end up replacing him, which meant…well, that couldn't be known. Harry foresaw much struggle and heartbreak in the Weasley family's future.

There was little time in which to discuss this, anyway, as it was very nearly time to return "home". Hogwarts was even more his "Palace-on-Earth" than it had been before he acknowledged the truth—Privet Drive would never be home to him. It was a great relief to find that the Weasleys had extended an invitation in advance to stay with them over the summer. The Quidditch World Cup was supposed to be in Britain this year…everyone knew that, for whatever reason, Harry liked quidditch, despite the many bad experiences he'd had playing it. It was something to look forward to, to take the edge off returning to the Dursleys.

Sirius Black had bought Ron an owl to replace his old "pet". As Crookshanks seemed to have a sixth sense for these things, they ran the bird's authenticity past him. He sniffed the owl and purred, which must mean that the bird was just that—he'd have taken violent action against a malevolent animagus. Hermione was quite smug at her wonderful choice of pets. Ron seemed unable to decide how to react. Those two….

* * *

All too soon, despite how much Harry wished to stay at Hogwarts, it was time to leave. Remus, Sirius, and Tonks boarded the train with them, Remus looking out the window at the retreating form of Hogwarts with the same wistful longing Harry recognised in himself.

He had retired before the end of the year. If there were a curse on the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, it had not had the chance to take effect. Professor Lupin had maximised his effectiveness, staying as long as he could without risking mortal injury or death.

Tonks seemed to have some sort of strong admiration for Remus's courage in bearing through his lycanthropy, and his heroism in the previous blood war. Somehow, she managed to monopolise Remus's attention for the entire train ride. It was almost as if….

Sirius looked on at the scene with folded arms and a smirk, and then turned to Harry. "Say, kiddo, I forgot to tell you, but I've a bit of a good surprise for you at the other end of the line." He still looked exhausted, and his skin was still rather waxy, stretched tight over his bones, but his smile was less alarming than it had been a few months ago. Progress.

Everyone in this compartment was more than used to Sirius Black by now: Harry had taken pains to acclimate Ron, and to ease Hermione into the experience that was a conversation with Sirius Black—on one of his good days. He still suspected that Sirius had suffered some sort of trauma-related head problems, and was now stuck at the age of twenty, or so. The age he'd been when he'd been sent to Azkaban. It was an alarming thought, but…surrounded by memories of what he'd lost, unable to move forward from the worst days of his life, many of them from his childhood, was it any wonder that his mental development had been…hampered?

All this meant that he was still impulsive and hot-headed, and somewhat immature. He didn't spend all his time cracking childish jokes and putting whoopee cushions on seats, but at the same time, he seemed not to have the experience to know how to handle delicate subjects with patience. He made a better older brother than guardian, but Ron already was an older brother who was also a guardian. The niche Sirius filled was that of guardian, nevertheless—a parental substitute. But he still seemed too young for such a role.

Whatever Harry ended up creating to help him would probably end up deaging his body back to match his mind state. It was the easiest way to accommodate the disparity. There were glimmers of maturity there, but that could be said of most people in their late teens. Perhaps, if Harry could shave off some years from Sirius physically (somehow), with his mental and physical age aligned, he would be able to mature in a somewhat ordinary way.

But that was an incredibly permanent solution, and Harry wanted to see how things progressed first. Sirius's problems with impulse control, as when he'd broken into Hogwarts to kill Pettigrew, belied his true intelligence. Speak with him on any of a number of subjects, and Harry saw glimmers, at least, of the intelligence Mother had credited him with. Watch him cast spells, see his improvisation, the flexibility, and realise that some of those spells were of his own making_…that_ impressed Harry.

But there was also no denying that Azkaban had left its mark on him. Harry wished that he'd go back to St. Mungo's—although he quite enjoyed spending time with Sirius. Still, it wouldn't be long until they parted ways. Then, doubtless, Sirius would go back to his treatment at St. Mungo's, until the Quidditch World Cup. Harry knew he needed treatment. He did not hold it against Sirius, that he had been absent for most of his life, or that he would need to be absent for a bit more of it.

That was not how things turned out. Sirius had arranged something with Dumbledore. It had been the reason for their frequent conferences toward the end of semester. At last, Dumbledore had yielded to Sirius's insistence, and arrangements had been made. Be cautious making bets concerning this one.

Sirius explained this all incredibly smugly. Harry was still thinking of the most pertinent information: Sirius was going to be staying with Harry at Number Four, Privet Drive "for it is clear that you need extra protection, with a mass murderer after you who actually committed the crime. I think Dumbledore feels guilty, leaving you to fend for yourself, the past decade".

Dumbledore was rarely that straightforward. Harry knew that magic was forbidden to the underage, except in extenuating circumstances— to save a life. Furthermore, Harry was the only wizard in the area. IF one of Voldemort's flunkies should somehow make it through the protective barrier around Number Four….

And the stay would doubtless be good for Sirius, too. But the thought of Sirius, staying in that house…how would he react to the cupboard? How would he react to the bars? He still remembered Fred's reaction, not to speak of Ron's. Still, there was a pool of warmth flooding him with reassurance from within, at the idea of Sirius Black, his godfather, his _family_, ready there for him. He knew not to have expected Ron, his brother, to come back with him, but had never considered that someone else might join him in his exile.

And exile it was, even if Dobby had returned all the mail he'd stolen last year—he was quite cut off from the Wizarding World. Sirius might not have quite the maturity level you would expect from someone his age, but he was a good fighter. Harry had seen some mock duels amongst the three adults, and Sirius was the quickest draw, the most creative caster, somehow moving with grace and poise, as if it were some horrible dance. Professor Lupin could sometimes almost match him, but Tonks never could, despite that she was an auror, despite his stint in Azkaban. The knowledge of his competence brought with it a strange sense of security: for the first time in this life, Harry had adults who cared about him for his own sake, who would die to defend him. For the first time, in this life, he had a safety net.

He needed to tell Sirius Black about his big secret, share the knowledge of the threat he posed. One of these days. Not just yet, though….

Malfoy did not dare to bother them—not with three adults in their compartment, including their ex-professor, and a convicted criminal. Perhaps Tonks, the auror, was worst of all. He just narrowed his eyes at the full compartment, and moved on, bringing his cronies with him. That was the second time that Remus had saved them from a fight with Malfoy…at the very least. And Remus always faced Malfoy with admirable calm, despite Malfoy's habitual, almost automatic, taunts about half-bloods and _monsters_, which made Harry angry enough for all of them. But he didn't act, because Professor Lupin was the one with the right to.

* * *

All too soon, the train arrived at King's Cross Station, and it was time to go their separate ways. Ron had given Harry another batch of rings (or the same batch, replenished), and their usage had been explained to those who remained. Presumably, Ron's new, unnamed owl, would take less time in delivering the rings, flying to and fro, than Errol had. Although, it was difficult to see how the rings were even necessary, when Sirius revealed that he would be staying at Number Four, Privet Drive, with Harry, in the summers from now on.

He _had_ to announce this—his big surprise—shortly before they got off the train, so that Harry wandered off the train in something of a daze, and didn't even hear Neville or Ginny saying their farewells, and that they would see him next year. Sirius was very pleased with himself for this.

Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Hermione, Ron, and Harry all disembarked together, Harry peering half-heartedly through the crowd looking for the Dursleys. He had no idea why they, hating magic and wizards as they did, came onto Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters, rather than waiting out in the station. Perhaps it wasn't allowed.

He started and flinched when Sirius's hand landed on his shoulder—a gesture intended to comfort, but Sirius noticed him start, and bent down to be at a closer level to Harry. It reminded him of Mother, which might not be the best train of thought to follow right now.

"You okay, kiddo?" asked Sirius. Harry didn't say that half of the extremity of his reaction was that he was no longer in a place of safety, where Uncle Vernon, Dudley, and Aunt Petunia couldn't reach him—he was back in _their_ world.

"Have you not noticed that he is…wary of physical contact?" asked Ron, who apparently was determined to see Harry off properly, this time. Molly Weasley was calling him, but he ignored her, for the moment.

"Harry?" asked Sirius, voice pitched higher in his concern.

"I'm fine," Harry lied. Ron and Sirius gave him almost identical looks of disbelief.

"There you are, boy. Hurry up, we're running late," Vernon Dursley said, pushing through the crowd by means of the sheer size of his girth. Harry tensed, and Sirius turned to meet the approaching threat head-on. Ron's eyes narrowed, and he seemed one wrong word away from a battle stance.

"Hi, Uncle Vernon!" said Harry, in a falsely cheerful voice. "It's so good to see you again. You have no idea how much I missed you, and Dudley, and Aunt Petunia this year!"

By which he meant: not at all. And Uncle Vernon knew it. His eyes narrowed into a mean-spirited squint, trying to figure out why Harry was behaving this oddly.

Good luck to him on that one. He wouldn't like the answer.

"I don't think I've had the chance to introduce you to my best friend, Ronald Weasley."

Ron shot him the most bemused expression he'd seen in a while, but gave a half-hearted wave that didn't suit him in any way. Harry's amusement at the situation grew.

"And this is Professor Lupin, who was one of our teachers this last year—"

"I've told you before: I'm not your teacher anymore. You can stop calling me 'Professor'. Just 'Remus' is fine."

"You!" cried Aunt Petunia, and then seemed to come to herself.

"Do you know each other?" asked Harry, with false wide-eyed innocence. For once, he could have some fun with the Dursleys without fear of later retribution. He'd like to see them even _try_ to keep up their usual system with Sirius there.

Remus gave a sort of half-grimace, and tried his best to smile at Aunt Petunia. "Hello, Petunia. It's good to see you're well." _Lie_, said his inner lie detector, quite unnecessarily. He hadn't known that Remus and Aunt Petunia knew each other, although he supposed that it made sense.

"Petunia?" asked Uncle Vernon, obviously wrong-footed with recent events. Harry shrugged, and continued before Aunt Petunia could explain.

"And this is Tonks, she's an auror."

"Hello," said Tonks, seeming at a loss, but ready to dislike anyone who spoke that way to Remus. Her eyes were narrowed. Aunt Petunia took one look at Tonks's bubblegum-pink, spiky hair, and seemed to regain her equilibrium enough to look down her nose at Tonks. "Pleased to meet you," Tonks said, which seemed to be a half-truth, or something. Harry frowned, just momentarily, before his expression leveled out again. He was just in time, as Tonks glanced at him sidelong for an explanation for the animosity she sensed from people she'd never even met, and who weren't even wizards, who might have known that she came of the House of Black. Harry shook his head.

"They think you're a delinquent," he muttered to her. "With your hair…and you're a witch, and they hate magic, so—"

Tonks looked briefly self-conscious, but she just stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jeans, and said nothing. The Dursleys resumed ignoring and overlooking her existence.

Harry continued on to the best, for last. By now, their personal experience with the Dursleys meant that Remus and Tonks would be pleased, too, at the reaction Sirius's introduction was sure to garner.

"And this is my godfather, Sirius Black," he said, beaming at them. "You might remember him from that news report about the break-out from a secure facility last year—they didn't say _which_ facility, because it was the wizard prison, Azkaban. Sort of a wizarding Alcatraz, I suppose." He allowed himself a moment to ponder this, and then continued, ignoring their sputters, or the way Dudley backed away, looking around frantic, and doubtless expecting to be receiving a pig's tail at any moment.

Sirius Black said nothing, following Harry's line of thought with an accuracy that alarmed everyone else. There was almost a vague sort of grin on his face. He was doing his utmost not to smile, and failing spectacularly.

"Hey, 'Tuney!" he said. "Good to see you again."

It was just as well that Harry's lie detection didn't work on Sirius Black at all. It meant that he could focus completely on the way Petunia paled, clutching Uncle Vernon's arm as she glanced around the station to see who might be watching them. A gossip is always aware of gossipers, and _dreads_ being their subject. She didn't even react to the nickname, although she still hated it. Even after all this time, it still reminded her of Lily, and that _awful boy_ who had taken her away.

Harry just basked in their discomfort for a bit, before moving on. He caught a glimpse of Remus shaking his head, out of the corner of his eye. Tonks seemed confused as to why he was painting Sirius in such a bad light.

"Did I mention that, per the headmaster's orders, he's going to be living with us from now on?"

Aunt Petunia fainted. It was just too much for her. "Is Aunt Petunia alright?" he asked Uncle Vernon, in fake worry. Ron shot him a sharp glance that he promptly proceeded to ignore. The Dursleys had made his life utterly miserable for ten years, almost killed him several times, and tried to keep him from going to Hogwarts. They in truth deserved far worse than this. Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold.

And no one was better equipped to serve it than Harry. Before the Dursleys could recover, Harry grabbed his trunk, and made for the car, waving goodbye to Ron, Tonks, and Remus as he did. He'd be seeing the rest of the people he cared about soon enough.

{end _Choose Well_}


	76. The Newest Squatter of Privet Drive

**author's note:** This year is going to start being confusing, owing to the introduction of many timelines that are almost identical to one another (did you know that we're on the third timeline, here?). There's also another aborted mini-plot that I'll speak of more when we get to the place where it would have been.

This book adds the last of our main characters into a main character role.

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Six: The Newest Squatter of Privet Drive**

This summer was definitely shaping up to be very different from that preceding second year. The Dursleys grit their teeth, but conceded that he be allowed to send messages to his friends, even, which was greater freedom than they'd ever allowed before. They were forced to cut back on their list of chores, and to ease up on their restrictions which made it impossible for him to do his homework, even, without going behind their backs. He still had chores, but they were now more manageable, because the Dursleys were acutely aware that they could no longer starve him, lock him in his cupboard, or keep him in line with threats of violence (or actual violence). Sirius Black was watching.

For the first time ever, the Dursley residence came close to being a place of, albeit limited, freedom. He had more options than he could ever recall having in his entire life spent there.

In short, he had no idea what to do with himself.

The continuing influx of news about a genocide in Africa he'd missed hearing about whilst at Hogwarts reminded him of his purpose, whilst underscoring the tendency of life to throw these sorts of things into his life, even in passing. He had enough self-awareness to realise how arrogant it was to hear of suffering on another continent, and even _briefly_ entertain the idea that it was anything to do with him, but he knew that it was unfortunate instances such as these that had helped to foster the mindset of himself as world-liberator/saviour. Almost, he understood, when he heard such news.

He took to thinking deep, and rather brooding, thoughts about Thanos, and the coming war, which was inevitable. He'd set aside his plans for it at some point, perhaps second year, and had come back to work on it, now and then, in the wake of Ron's revelation…but it was still something that could barely be considered even a sketch. All the gaps in his planning let him know, with the force of being hit in the head with a hammer, just how little he knew of the future.

Come to Earth, cause trouble in New Mexico, go back home, Fall, be turned inside out, and then try to take over the Earth. Adapt superficially, now and then, enough to not attract unwanted attention. Know at least enough of the rules not to arouse dsuspicion. Where did any of that knowledge come from? He didn't know.

That there were still gaps in his memory was quite unfair, and rather unnerving. That this realisation had taken so long to hit him made him think that he might be overestimating his own abilities at reason and logic, or even his own intelligence, not something he liked considering.

And the future…how would he learn about that? He could learn more about Thor's friends, the Avengers, from Thor, himself…that was the other hurdle (although that knowledge was also limited). But how could he start to plan without knowledge of how long they had—how far away _was_ Thanos? Why hadn't he attacked Earth while it was still recovering from the Chitauri Invasion? Just when had Thor gone back in time? But back then, Thor had viewed time in a purely Asgardian fashion—he didn't know that, himself.

All Harry's analysis told him that, regardless of consequence and circumstances he didn't know—no matter what the _after_ held—the Chitauri Invasion had to happen. And that meant that everything that _preceded_ it had to happen. Although it might be in his power to prevent the shattering of his not-so-dream-family, although he might be able to save his past self, although to do otherwise would hurt both Ron and Thor, he had no choice but to let it all play out as it had. Because that was the event that had brought the Avengers together.

More importantly, it had called attention to the threat posed by other worlds…validated Fury's plans, perhaps, but shown that extraterrestrials were more than mere Urban Legend, that there were genuine threats outside of the Earth, from which it needed protection. And perhaps Fury would be less ready to listen to him after such an Invasion—particularly if he knew that Harry was aware that it was going to happen, decades in advance, before any of the participants. But that distrust paled in comparison to the necessity of showing even Fury just what he was up against.

Ideally, he'd already be placed in America by then, and with a ready alibi, and the ability to gain the Avengers' trust. Ron could help with that. And Hermione, when she knew. And Sirius. And maybe Remus. If they were out, across the sea, in New York, for the Invasion, they might be able even to mitigate some of the damage that had been done. And they'd be ready to help with…what came afterwards? That lack of knowledge made planning impossible. He needed to talk to Thor.

When all of this planning began to seem hopeless wandering in circles, and he wasn't busy writing his essays and memorising facts (and recipes for Potions), he turned his mind to the idea of how to help Sirius. He'd talk about it to Hedwig, if nothing else. He'd used her as a sounding board before. She was a smart girl, even if she didn't understand the intricacies of his theories. Mostly, however, it was just for someone to talk to. He thought of what Mother had taught him of healing, which was almost certainly his best recourse: there was nothing in wizarding history quite like Sirius's case. He'd look in Flourish and Blott, anyway….

He started taking notes on muggle paper, because…why not? It had been years since he'd used a paper and pen, and they seemed strange in his hands. He sighed. His other memories weren't helping with that, either. At least ballpoint pens didn't need to be dipped in ink…and they were less messy….

It occurred to him that there were few ways that he could take notes on anything, anymore, without the risk of Sirius finding them. He came up with a sort of code, and spent the first part of his summer painstakingly translating what he was going to use of his original notes into this code. Conspicuous? He hoped not. There were runes in there, and symbols he came up with, himself, things that he thought would be memorable, that would make sense to him. He didn't bother writing down a translation of the code anywhere.

Infuriatingly, this exercise felt familiar to him, although he couldn't place the memory. Perhaps something of the gaps?

Sirius seemed to have an instinct for when it was best to approach Harry, and when to leave him alone. He seemed to spend far too much time goading the Dursleys, but, as he explained to Harry, he was bored.

As the summer progressed, he occasionally disappeared for days at a time, and returned with things Harry had never seen before—potions ingredients that must be quite rare, and certainly not available in the school supply cabinets, or on the list of school materials; books written in languages _Harry_ didn't recognise, which Sirius seemed to treat as curiosities; and now and then mysterious…things that Harry couldn't even begin to guess at. Most of them kept in small boxes.

Sometimes, too, he returned with old robes, old clothes, personal belongings…even a few photos and letters. And he was always game to answer any of Harry's questions, although not always coherent enough to do that very well. He loved talking about his time in Hogwarts, and about Harry's dad, James, and grandparents (why had he never given them a second thought before?).

He related some of the pranks that the Marauders had pulled, and, after one occasion in which Uncle Vernon had had a bad day and was ready to take it out on Harry—a day in which Sirius was absent, for which he apologised profusely—he finally confessed some of the nastiness of his own past. He seemed to feel that he owed Harry that.

But Harry told him that the Dursleys' current behaviour was nothing as bad as he was used to, and that Sirius needed to live his own life ("Why don't you go back to St. Mungo's for treatment? I'll be _fine_. If you're bored, perhaps I should be paying more attention to you."). Somehow, none of this reassured Sirius, who seemed to feel that he was thrice a bad guardian, and resolved to keep an even closer eye on Harry after that…and murder the Dursleys. Harry quietly suspected that Ron had first dibs on that.

Hearing about the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was a horrifying experience—Harry would readily say that Sirius had had a worse childhood than he. But he couldn't help reserving judgement on the younger brother of the two Black siblings, not just because of how Sirius sort of reminded him of Thor, with his impulsive recklessness and anger-management issues on top of a fierce loyalty…it wasn't just that Regulus was the younger brother, assumed evil, slain young.

Okay, maybe it was. Still, he didn't like the uncertainty hidden in the narrative of that story. _No_, no one had ever found the body. But his name was crossed out on the family tapestry, and he certainly hadn't been disowned (and _Mother _burnt the names of those disowned from the Black family off the tapestry with a special spell). Rumour abounded; even in Azkaban, they told of how Voldemort had ordered his execution. That had to make it official.

Kreacher, the evil house-elf, still adored Regulus, still followed Walburga Black's blood purity madness. Sirius shouldn't have left Regulus to fend for himself in that snake's nest…he surely would have been able to keep Regulus from going to the bad….

Harry shivered at the comparisons he kept making, and subtly changed the subject. He suspected Sirius caught his discomfort despite that (he seemed to notice _everything_), but he didn't mention it. Doubtless, he was confused, noticing how the puzzle pieces didn't seem to all mesh together. That was hardly surprising, as Harry was a mishmash of two different puzzles, and the dementors had really roughed up the metaphorical edges of those puzzles' pieces. And then you had to add in both Thanos and Voldemort….

One of these days, he was going to have to tell Sirius the truth. But he had to understand him better, first. Ideally, it would be after Sirius recovered…but who knew when that would be?

* * *

Ron showed up out of nowhere towards the end of July, in his typical fashion. He gave Sirius a bit of a fright, appearing at the window as he did. If Harry had known that Ron was going to pay them a visit, he would have warned his new roommate about protocol. As it was, Sirius, always swift on the draw, had his wand aimed straight at Ron's face before he could even realise who it was.

"It's alright, Sirius," Harry said, rolling his eyes as he crossed to the window. "Ron does this whenever he visits. I'd love to say that's what the bars are there for, but you can probably see the grooves in the sill where three of them got pulled out in the summer of my second year, so I doubt you'd believe it."

He threw open the window. "This is becoming something of a tradition, by now. I suppose you took the Knight Bus. I must reimburse you for taking your life into your own hands. No matter who or what you are, I doubt the Knight Bus is good for anyone's health. Come in. Don't just hang there. You'd think you'd know by now."

Ron carefully eased his way around the bars into the room. He paused when he noticed Sirius lowering the wand.

"You have a worthy defender," he said to Harry, who just smiled.

"Now, I've gathered everyone inclined to be overprotective of me into one room. I suppose I shall spend the rest of the summer locked up here… for my protection, this time?"

Ron paused. "Ah. No. I came to warn you that Dad has seats for the Quidditch World Cup, and is sending a rather unusual letter to your…guardians. They may not appreciate the number of stamps Mum used."

Harry wanted to see that envelope, now.

"If you intend to join us for the Quidditch World Cup, you should start packing soon. I also feel that I should inform you that they plan on arriving via floo powder. That did not seem to agree with you the summer before second year…."

Harry frowned. "Ah…yes, _that_ was embarrassing. I don't think I want to end up in Knockturn Alley, again."

"'Knockturn Alley'?" Sirius repeated. "How did you end up _there_?"

Harry grimaced. "Thank you for the warning," he said, turning back to Ron. "It _is_ good to see you again. How _have_ I survived this much of the summer without my overprotective big brother watching out for me?"

"Harry, I have said before—"

"—that I shouldn't make light of my own death. I remember." He looked down, frowning and turning to Hedwig's empty cage.

"Damn right you shouldn't!" Sirius cried, apparently wide-awake now. Out of force of habit, Harry flinched, winced, opened his mouth to suggest that he _keep it down, please_.

Ron and Sirius both saw, both understood. Sirius looked incredibly guilty. Ron clenched his fists tight, but at least electricity wasn't gathering in them. He seemed to have gotten that pretty much under control. That was a relief: Harry had no idea how he'd explain to Sirius that Ron's "accidental" magic always seemed to manifest as lightning.

"Are you alright, little brother? Have the Dursleys treated you well?"

Harry smiled, spreading his arms wide. "As if they'd _dare_ harm me, now."

"And what of last week?" Sirius interjected, frowning. That was quite a reproachful frown. Of _course_, Sirius had to bring that up. Harry glared at him.

"I'm _fine_," he retorted. "Really, for the Dursleys, that was _tame_. They're holding back—"

"Then what do they usually do, Harry?" asked Sirius, with deadly calm. Harry paled. He didn't want to think of what Sirius's reaction would be if he ever learnt the true extent of the Dursleys' mistreatment of him. Restraint only got you so far with someone like Thor.

"So when should I expect this letter?" he asked. Sirius glanced his way, and his expression said that this discussion was far from over. It was one of his rare moments of maturity. _Why_ did one of them have to show up right now?

"Harry," said Ron, who was far less likely to even let the matter sit for a while.

Harry sighed. "Look, I know you're smart enough to read between at least some of the lines in my behaviour. But they didn't leave that many scars. It was mostly starvation and locking me—in my room, I mean." He shot Ron a meaningful look. One that said that Sirius had yet to learn about the cupboard under the stairs. "I already told you the most important things. Can we return to the reason for your visit, now?"

Because lying would never avail him in such situations. Sirius was sure to find out everything, sooner or later, and there were few important details missing from his account of the Dursleys that he'd given Ron years ago…back when Ron had just been Ron. Or rather, back before he'd known.

"Bastards," Sirius snarled. "I should kill them—"

"I'm pretty sure that Ron has seniority on that," Harry said, in a deliberately light tone, cutting him off. "He learnt about it first, after all. But if you do that, I'll lose the protection of my Mother's love—the thing that's kept me alive at least twice since I've come to Hogwarts. It's the reason I survived first and second year."

"And just _what_ happened first and second year?" Sirius asked, eyes narrowed. Ah. Yes. He knew he'd forgotten something. Harry glared at Ron, as if it were his fault.

"Hey, Ron, do you feel like a sleepover? I've never had one of those. We can swap stories, and you can ensure Sirius doesn't murder me for getting into so much trouble…."

Because talking about the first two years, even in summary, was sure to take a long time. It was Ron's fault for bringing this up, anyway.

* * *

It took hours to tell the entire story to Sirius, of course. He didn't seem to know how to react. Had the items in this room not all been either Harry's belongings, or highly dangerous…_things_ he'd brought from Grimmauld Place, he would likely have broken a few things, thrown a few others, and punched a few holes in the walls. Were it not for his understanding that any misbehaviour on his part would reflect onto Harry, he would likely have shouted. Instead, he cast a _silencio_ on himself, shouted a bit, and took to pacing the room.

His anger, worse, had no ready outlet—he could hardly fault Harry or Ron for the situations they'd been drawn into; only the incident involving the troll was anything like their fault, really. The rest of the time, they'd been the victims of inflated circumstance and statistical improbability. He wanted to blame Dumbledore, but knew that the old man was hardly omniscient. He'd believed Pettigrew to be dead, had believed that Sirius to be a traitor, had never realised that the Marauders were animagi. Dumbledore was the most likely target, however.

In the end, the emotions had him drained and worn out. The dementors fostered negative emotions, draining out the positive. It was hardly surprising that anger at the injustice of what Harry had gone through, and fear of the future, were easier to reach than the joy and relief that Harry had survived, that he'd lived long enough, despite the odds, to meet Sirius, for them to reach this point. Sirius knew that he should just be grateful that Harry was still here.

A _basilisk_? A mountain troll? A three-headed dog, guarding the legendary artefact known as the Philosopher's Stone? What was next? Grindelwald?

And the thought of Harry facing off against Voldemort, two years in a row. Whoever decreed people's fates—if there were any, and he'd had his phase of researching such things—must have it out for Harry. But he knew that his presence here in Harry's life took away the threat of the Dursleys—they and no other. It wasn't protecting Harry against Voldemort. And that prophecy… it suggested that the two would keep being drawn together, again and again, until the prophecy was fulfilled.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair (hey, he'd tried short hair; it didn't suit him). He tried not to make Harry worry about him. He knew that Harry often did, that they seemed to be co-dependents. Harry looked after him, with that strange, almost understandable advanced maturity he had, and he looked after Harry.

Although, it seemed Ron'd done a much better job of that than he, over the years.

_And where were you_? he kept asking himself, as Harry's tale progressed. But he was powerless to change the past. All he could do was help Harry from now on. Harry had to be his priority, as he should have been, that Hallowe'en night. He couldn't make up for his past failures, but he could make sure that he never failed Harry again.

_Are you sure of that_? asked the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in…years. Decades. Damn, his mind was messed up….

He sighed, sinking his head into his hands. He couldn't promise that he'd always be there; he'd already failed Harry once this summer. But….

"Just let me know what I can do to help you," Sirius begged. "You know I'll do anything for you, kiddo."

Harry blinked, staring at him as if thrown off-balance, as if he'd never expected anyone to say anything like that to him, and that _hurt_. It was an actual, physical ache in Sirius's chest. "Come on, kiddo, you must have known that before."

"And I," Ron interjected, shooting Harry a look that Sirius couldn't decipher. Something else that they'd kept from him, but Harry deserved his secrets, and, although Sirius'd shared some of his own past, Harry deserved his privacy. Sirius knew how it felt to be vulnerable, to be laid bare, defenceless. It was not a good feeling. He'd pushed Harry too hard. He'd been like all the other adults in Harry's life.

"Sorry, kiddo. But look, you can tell me _anything_, and I promise not to judge you."

Harry looked as if there was something he wanted to say. But he opened his mouth, closed it, and ended up saying nothing at all.

But Sirius knew that he was listening, and that was all that mattered.


	77. To the Burrow!

**Chapter Seventy-Seven: To The Burrow!**

Ron most likely arrived back home after sunrise of the next morning, and was probably summarily punished by Mrs. Weasley, which was a strange thought. After that, Sirius was filled with boundless excitement towards the idea of the coming World Cup. He kept talking about (what seemed to be) every quidditch match he'd ever attended, professional and not, speculating as to how long this match would last, and going over the rosters of the two teams involved (this involved a few more quiet disappearances, but they were in the middle of the night; he refused to leave Harry alone whilst the Dursleys were awake).

Sirius thrust a book of quidditch techniques into his hands, and Harry, bemused and a bit alarmed at Sirius's enthusiasm, did as he was asked, and studied quidditch "trivia and tactics". _Quidditch through the Ages_ was quick to follow, and Harry thought of Hermione, in first year, preparing for the first flying lesson, with a pang. He'd been exempted from flying lessons after that; he rather thought that everyone else at Hogwarts was still taking those classes, which seemed rather unfair. Think of all the basic knowledge he was being denied.

But, hey, owing to his position on the quidditch team, Sirius seemed to think him ready to learn not only how to perform complicated aerial manoeuvres, but the _names_ of these, as well. Combine that with analysis of the statistics of the Irish and Bulgarian teams….

How did Sirius keep track of all this? Were all sports fans this…_thorough_? Did Sirius have an entire compartment or his brain dedicated to this knowledge, untouched by the dementors? Of course, he knew that James, his dad, had been a chaser on the gryffindor quidditch team…but he'd never gone pro, had never had the chance to try half of these moves. Still, a part of him couldn't wait to try some of the trickier moves against Malfoy. Why was that, exactly?

At least Sirius was keeping busy, and was spending time with him, without even moping. Sirius had gone into town to buy his own tickets, full of that casual confidence, the certainty that the world would part for him, that everyone would go out of their way to please him, the last heir to the House of Black, that Stark had. It was what came of being born and raised in privilege, even if your family was as messed up as the Blacks. And was that family ever a tangled mess!

Somehow, he'd managed to secure seats in the Top Box with the Weasleys. And he must have realised beforehand that he'd be able to do just that. Unfortunately, he returned from his excursion to inform Harry that Malfoy would also be there. Well, you couldn't have everything, and it made sense: the Malfoys were a powerful, and prominent, family, who quite enjoyed flaunting their wealth. Still, both of their moods soured at this little fact. Harry contemplated shoving Malfoy off the height of the stands if he spoke even a word ill against the Weasleys, Remus, _or_ Sirius. Malfoy was bad enough in school, but to see him at an event that Harry would otherwise _enjoy_….

Sirius, though subdued, nevertheless continued Harry's impromptu quidditch lessons with feigned cheer and energy. It meant that they spent less time around the Dursleys, so Harry humoured him.

Harry quite expected to have dreams filled with quidditch teams after that. Instead, he was alarmed by a dream involving the murder of an elderly muggle man who dared to stand up to Riddle. Perhaps it was merely an echo of the last few days of memories from his dreams, or perhaps it was another instance of Fate's cruel resonance in _this_ life. He had to admire that muggle man—Frank Bryce (a name swift to leave his memory after he woke), who, despite not knowing who or even _what_ he faced, died defying Voldemort.

Harry had no idea how he knew his name, but he wrote that down, with everything else he could remember of the dream, on a blank sheet of notebook paper, careful to be as quiet as he could, lest he wake Sirius. Sirius was hovering enough as it was, thank you. He didn't need _another_ Ron.

He did, however, tell Sirius what he'd written down once Sirius woke up. He wasn't expecting Sirius to lecture him about "why didn't you wake me up and tell me, Harry?", or to treat the dream as some sort of important sign of the future.

"And that traitor was in the dream?" he spat. "That traitor" was what Sirius usually called Peter Pettigrew. Harry nodded, trying to figure Sirius out. Sirius ran his hands through his hair as if trying to finger-comb it. He was pacing back and forth in uneven lines. It reminded Harry of something, although he had no idea what. Perhaps the fact that he tended to pace whenever he was agitated, and trying to think. Or agitated. Or trying to think.

"Sirius?" he asked, more than a bit bewildered at Sirius's current actions.

"We should send word to Dumbledore," Sirius said, firmly. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. Harry had had no notion that the dream was that important.

"Whatever for? I've had plenty of strange dreams," Harry said.

"Dreams that mesh _this_ well with reality? With this much continuity? Dreams are usually full of flux, inconsistent, erratic. This one seems consistent with external reality—what we know of it. Pettigrew rejoined his master, has prepared some sort of solution to give Voldemort a semi-corporeal form—a possibility—and is back in Britain. No longer in Albania. You hear that he murdered a witch named 'Bertha Jorkins'—I've heard of her, by the way—and that he's planning to murder you somehow after the World Cup—but you aren't concerned?"

"He's always planning to murder me," said Harry, shrugging. It certainly seemed true. Sirius's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned razor sharp. But there was more than a hint of worry in it, too.

"I'm with Ron: stop making light of your own death! Don't you realise that there are people who care about you? I, and Ron, and Hermione, and Remus, and Tonks, and the entire Weasley clan, if I can judge, not just Ron. You're not going to get anywhere if you never plan ahead. You've got some notion of what's coming: use it!"

Harry blinked, stunned as if stricken. That sounded like the sort of advice he'd give to Thor.

"Hey, now, I'm not saying that I'm not planning ahead, " he replied, feeling rather defensive. "I just don't see how much Dumbledore could make of what we've said."

"He would be able to find out if Bertha Jorkins has gone missing, as your dream suggests. That would be enough to validate it. He'd increase security at the castle—"

"How? Hogwarts is smothered in protective magic—even You-Know-Who can't get through! There's nothing Dumbledore can do that he hasn't already—except forbid me come back to Hogwarts, I suppose. But I can't hide here at Privet Drive for the rest of my life, either—the prophecy is the prophecy, and you're the one sure it will find a way to be fulfilled. Defying it only prolongs the inevitable. I'm not rushing into danger; I'm being realistic. Except for this last year, the school year ends in a battle between me and Riddle, and I pull through in the end. If there's prophecy involved, perhaps it's even inevitable.

"Suppose Dumbledore checks up on the facts. Suppose he confirms that Bertha Jorkins is missing, that Riddle is nearby, that Peter Pettigrew is in Britain, too. Then what? I think you overestimate Dumbledore's abilities. What could he do? With such limited information—I don't even know where that dream took place! Riddle is a disembodied wraith, one that, apparently, only I can defeat. There's a reason Dumbledore's only been keeping tabs on him since his disappearance the night when—the night of his fall.

"But, fine! I'm not saying you shouldn't send him a letter—you know best. I only don't understand why you think this is important…. But…I suppose you're right. It wasn't very like the dreams I usually have."

In fact, its stark vividness had him thinking of the dreams that had come to him when he'd been ten. There was that same sense of super-reality to them. That they were more than mere creations of his subconscious, but depicting actual events. He had to concede that fact.

"Thank you, Sirius," he said, bowing his head, and looking down at the floorboards under his bed. He _was_ an ingrate, wasn't he? He should be glad, grateful that he now had a guardian who _cared_ about him living in the same house at him—someone who _could_ send messages to Dumbledore. Someone who cared about Harry enough to worry about him, enough to contact Dumbledore at the mere hint that he was in danger.

"I get it, kiddo," Sirius said, resting a hand gently on Harry's shoulder. Harry managed to mostly suppress his flinch, but Sirius must have noticed. His grip tightened, and his face drew taut. "I've been where you are. Don't forget that. I understand where you're coming from."

_Is that what you believe, Sirius? But you do not know my biggest secret._ Harry raised his eyes to look at Sirius, but had to close them at that pained expression. _He'd_ caused that.

_I should tell him_, Harry thought, yet again. Yet again, however, he did nothing.

* * *

The letter arrived a few days after Ron's visit, delivered by the mailman in person, who thought that the envelope's coating of stamps was amusing. Aunt Petunia was personally offended at the mailman's humour at their expense. She bristled, snatching the envelope from the poor man's hands, and storming over to Harry to thrust the envelope into his, with a huff. With Sirius watching, it was all that she dared to do.

Harry opened the envelope with some care, after thoroughly examining it. It was drowning in stamps, which created a waterproof coating around the letter, save for a tiny corner in which Mr. Weasley had squeezed in the Dursleys' address. Despite that, the letter voiced the Weasleys' concerns that they might not have put on enough stamps. He could just picture Ron biting his tongue to keep from informing them of this fact…unless he'd never seen muggle post, either. The Earth (Midgard) he'd encountered twenty years hence had been more technologically advanced. He didn't think they used the post anymore—at least, not as much. It was possible that Thor had never encountered it…hard to imagine Stark using something so old-fashioned.

"We'd best send a reply to Mr. Weasley," said Harry to Sirius, as if they were the only two people in the house. "Let him know that we're coming, yeah?"

Aunt Petunia looked as if her grapefruit had rotted before her eyes, and she had lost her appetite. Harry smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs to his room to pen the reply, leaving Sirius to do what he did best: annoy the Dursleys. This time there might be some substance couched in his insults, but they'd probably never find it.

* * *

They were to spend the next few weeks at The Burrow. Unfortunately, those weeks did not include Harry's fourteenth birthday, but Sirius had gone out of his way to make that day memorable, anyway, taking Harry into London and Diagon Alley. They'd raided Quality Quidditch Supplies and Flourish and Blotts. Those hours spent far from the Dursleys were gift enough. But this gave Sirius the occasion to reveal, in the most casual way imaginable, that he'd been the one to give Harry the Firebolt. Hermione had been right, again.

Harry had more fun in that outing than he recalled ever having. Sirius's casual confidence ensured that they received the best service without even trying, and his slightly sarcastic sense of humour had a way of restoring the novelty of ordinary experiences. Sirius was just a fun person in general, and his sense of adventure and enthusiasm were catching. It was the closest Harry had ever come to having an opportunity to just be a child.

Unfortunately, this kept the reminder of his past lurking in Harry's mind. How very contrary of his mind, to sabotage him, thus.

Did he truly qualify as being a child? Of course, he did. He must….

How exactly had Ron managed not to go mad with his identity crises?

-l-

A couple of days later, the Weasleys arrived, as threatened, via floo. Harry's attempts to forewarn Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia only served to ensure that they were covered in soot from the false fireplace (or, he supposed that that white stuff was plaster). Uncle Vernon went all purple under his thick coating of white dust, and rubble. Aunt Petunia swayed on her feet, but otherwise stood still as a statue. She looked pained. Dudley scuttled through the house crabwise, remembering Hagrid's assault on him prior to first year—the only experience he had with an adult wizard before Sirius had arrived, and, quite possibly, made things worse. Were it not Dudley, Harry might have been inclined to pity.

While Arthur Weasley was very apologetic, the Twins, who had been invited along for reasons unknown, ruined the effect by snickering behind his back at the proceedings. Harry raised an eyebrow at their antics. They didn't even have the excuse of being giddy on account of being in the presence of one of their idols to justify their actions: Harry had left it up to the Marauders to introduce themselves to the Twins, and the Marauders had yet to do this. The Twins were just…themselves.

Ron glanced over at Harry to ensure that Harry had no new injuries, and Sirius smiled, nodding his acknowledgement, hands in his black jeans. "We have everything we're bringing, and I remembered to place defences around the dangerous stuff I took from my childhood home that I left here. I think we're good to go."

Aunt Petunia swayed more violently at the mention of dangerous wizard contraband stuck in her house, and closed her eyes, as if about to faint. Uncle Vernon grabbed hold of her shoulder, and she clutched his arm as if to keep herself upright.

They left, one after the other, Mr. Weasley repeatedly issuing instructions to Harry on how to use floo powder. The Twins preceded him into the fire, and he half-expected to be shut out. But apparently, they'd spilt some sort of prank candy on the floor, "Ton-Tongue Toffees", which had swollen Dudley's tongue to a size that he could barely even breathe, and they'd wisely waited to coincide this with their departure.

Harry decided that this was a sign, if anything was, that he should be wary of the Twins. Never before had he realised that they might _accidentally_ kill him. And hadn't Ron mentioned the Twins as the originators of his arachnophobia, in second year? They were not to be underestimated. Either wizarding pranks were inherently more malicious than muggle ones, or they had a bit of a mean streak…. He decided not to get on their bad side, which… should have occurred to him before.

In a time before, he might have been inclined to challenge them to a prank war, but that was neither here nor there. Perhaps, when all was said and done…if everyone were still alive after Thanos had done with them….

Ah, yes. Happy thoughts. Sirius might have had to stay behind to help Mr. Weasley set Dudley right, but, as an ex-prankster, Harry had the greatest faith in his ability to undo what the Twins had done. After all, the Marauders were the Twins' _idols_.

Ron seemed a bit out of sorts following the Twins' newest pranks—this couldn't dredge up the _pleasantest_ memories, although there might be a bit of nostalgia to thoughts of less desperate times. Harry sat beside him, and quirked an eyebrow in his direction. Ron started, as if he'd just remembered that Harry was in the know. Entirely possible. Harry smirked, and Ron shuddered, and then Ginny entered the room.

"Hi, Harry!" she cried, an odd spring in her step as she approached, beaming at him. "I wasn't expecting you so soon!"

Ron gave his most puzzled frown, successfully distracted from bittersweet memories. Harry smiled.

"Ginny, we arranged Harry's retrieval days ago," Ron said, brow furrowed in evident confusion.

She blushed scarlet, looking down at the ground, and shot Ron a glare, aside. "I know _that_, I just thought it would take longer, or something…. I dunno, it just feels like a surprise, to see Harry here. A good surprise, though."

She regained her steam at the end, as she turned her attention to Harry, who was unprepared to receive it.

"…Hello, Ginny," he said. "Have you had a good summer?"

Ron stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. And possibly a third. Ginny sat down across the table from both of them, but ignored Ron.

"Mum won't let me play quidditch," she huffed, crossing her arms in a pout. "But I suppose I've got the World Cup to look forward to. Still, you'd think that since I was reserve seeker last year…."

She gave a helpless little shrug.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You seemed an excellent flier on the tryouts," he said, smiling at her. She blushed and looked down at the floor.

"I hadn't realised that you were paying attention…I mean, you seemed pretty absent all last year on account of…you know, the _dementors_. I thought—"

"Well, I had to see if _you_ were any good, didn't I? Half of your family have been on the quidditch team, after all…."

Ginny blinked. "…Is this going to be one of those days when you're inexplicably nice to me?" she asked. He frowned at her, and then realised he was frowning, and leveled his expression out. He was distantly aware of the fact that he had an audience, which increased when Mrs. Weasley entered the room. Mostly, though, he was trying to understand where Ginny was coming from, which was quite a task at the best of times.

"I thought we'd been getting on well enough," he said, cocking his head, analysing her. She refused to meet his gaze.

"I just…what you said last Valentine's Day…and everything you did the last time you stayed here!"

He had no idea what she was talking about. He _did_ remember making her cry, which had hardly been his goal, so what was she upset about? He decided that apology was the best route, anyway.

"I'm very sorry about my behaviour before second year—before your first year. I never meant to make you cry."

Ginny's eyes narrowed, and she uncrossed an arm to point at him. "See, like that! You were friendly when we went to Diagon Alley, and then you teased me on Valentine's Day…and then you ignored me all last year—"

"I was hardly in my best frame of mind last year," he said. He shouldn't have to remind her of that: she'd _just_ mentioned it.

"Are you going to tease me and prank me or make me cry?" she asked, still pointing, eyes narrowed. He sighed, putting his head in his hands, and glanced aside at Ron, who seemed almost smug at their interaction. Eh, whatever.

"I only did that because you were treating me like some sort of freak; I get enough of that at the Dursleys'. I'd love to say 'let's start over, and let bygones be bygones', but then you'd go back to hiding from me and not saying a single word to me that you didn't have to. I'd rather not have that, either. I suppose I shall have to suffer your wrath, instead."

Ron was somehow succeeding in keeping them both in his field of vision—probably those battle reflexes at play, again. Harry scowled at Ron, and then leveled his expression out again before he turned to Ginny.

"Ginny, I've done my best to be polite to you whenever we've met," he said. He was not about to remind her that he'd offered to listen to her should she ever need to talk about what had happened with the diary. Now was not the time and place: Ron didn't know about it, and Mrs. Weasley was bustling in and out of the kitchen with such energy that she had to be eavesdropping. He knew gossipy behaviour when he saw it, grace of Aunt Petunia.

She huffed. "Oh, _politeness_! What better way to say that I'm not interesting enough to be your friend!" she said, which was so unfair that Harry stood up, putting his weight on the table to push himself upright faster.

"Now, come on, Ginny, that wasn't what I was saying at all!"

"It took a while, but we managed!" Mr. Weasley said, emerging from the fireplace, beads of sweat covering his face from either the heat of the fire or recent exertions. "Those Twins have really done it this time—that poor boy, he could have choked, just wait until I tell their mother—"

"Tell me what?" Mrs. Weasley asked, hands on her hips, as she returned from the kitchen.

"Ah, er, nothing, Molly dear," Mr. Weasley said, cowed.

"Your sons played a bit of a prank on that Dudley boy, is all," said Sirius, with a casual shrug, as he, too, emerged from the fireplace. He looked as if a lucky shard of porcelain had cut his exposed forearm. Mrs. Weasley was torn between the need to reprimand her children, and the need to see to that wound—the quintessential nurturing mother instinct, especially as she was older than Sirius.

The former won out when Sirius continued, with a little apathetic shrug. "Can't say as I blame them, honestly. I've been trying to _live_ with them for the past two months."

Mrs. Weasley was more than willing to disapprove of anyone who could fail to disapprove of her sons' pranking habits. She frowned, bustling out of the room to find Fred and George, who were taken by surprise in eavesdropping on word of their success.

Neither Sirius nor Mrs. Weasley seemed to realise that they'd just interrupted an argument; clearly the tension lacing the air must not be as obvious as it felt to Harry, who slowly unclenched his fists.

Ron glanced back and forth between Ginny and Harry. "Shall I remind you of the location of your room, then?" he asked.


	78. The Quidditch World Cup

**author's note:** This is the chapter that was, originally, going to start an entire subplot, but I abandoned the idea at the last moment. If the chapter seems to be missing something, that might be it. I'd been planning it for almost a year by the time it came around to writing this chapter, and I realised...a week? before that I couldn't really explain how Clint Barton got onto the grounds of the Quidditch World Cup, and then I wondered whether movie-him was even with S.H.I.E.L.D. yet, and….

But, that was what it was going to be. Don't you think this 'fic has enough contrivances as it is?

* * *

**Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Quidditch World Cup**

Hermione, despite her lack of enthusiasm for quidditch, agreed to see the Quidditch World Cup for a number of reasons, among them the fact that she was friends with a bunch of quidditch maniacs, that her parents had insisted upon a respite from traveling the world (they'd been to Cornwall, Wales, and France; they deserved a break), and the fact that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they had prime seating.

She arrived the night before Harry did, which gave her some time to speak with Ginny. The poor girl reminded Hermione a bit of herself, first year, before The Troll Incident. Despite Ginny's passionate nature and confidence, she seemed to have trouble making friends; Hermione was aware of only one another female friend of Ginny's, some girl named "Luna", who wasn't even in the same House as Ginny. As they'd been childhood friends, Hermione assumed that "Luna" lived nearby.

But what Hermione was dying to discuss and what Ginny wanted to talk about were completely different. Ginny was already full of frenetic energy concerning the World Cup, rattling off all sorts of facts to Hermione the way that ordinarily only Hermione could rattle off information. But instead of hours dedicated to memorising textbooks, even when they were dull and boring, Ginny's database of facts were all about a subject that she considered immensely interesting, and Hermione rather dull.

If Hermione weren't best friends with Ginny's older brother, _and_ with Ginny's crush, they likely would never have stricken up such a friendship. Then again…if Hermione weren't friends with Harry and Ron, she doubted she'd have survived the troll attack, and even had she, she'd still be the quiet wallflower in the corner, desperately memorising unimportant trivia with the fervour that gave it greater import than it could ever deserve. Once you started on hypotheticals, all standard metrics failed. Who knew how different things might have been…?

Of course, she still liked thinking about and talking about school. Her personal goal was to discover what new subjects Ginny was taking—she was starting the third year, after all. No matter which class Ginny took, Hermione could do the big sister thing and help her out a little.

But Ginny was far too fixated upon the coming quidditch match. Before Hermione had arrived, she'd known next-to nothing about it, but she'd made the mistake of asking, "Bulgaria versus Ireland, was it?" with such hesitance that Ginny must have known that Hermione was ignorant about this subject. She launched into a detailed list of the players, their past exploits, strengths, and weaknesses, pausing to note that Krum was a world-renowned Seeker despite still being school aged.

"He's not as good as Harry, though…but he's much better than Lynch. There's sort of national pride at play for all of us here in the U.K.…England got knocked out of the running early, you know, but with Ireland in the championship, it's almost as good."

She had a sort of absent, dreamy look to her, as if it mattered that Britain had lost, or about whoever this Krum was. Hermione, for once, felt completely out of her depth.

Thus, she took the direct route. "Ginny, what courses are you taking this year?" she interrupted some sort of argument concerning velocity and Firebolts to ask. Ginny gave her a horrified, wide-eyed look.

"Hermione, it's the middle of _summer_. We're on _break_. _Why_ are you talking about school? I don't even want to _think_ about school right now. Mum made sure I got my homework done a few weeks after school let out—you can't get anything past Mum, you know. Not only has she been to Hogwarts, but then you have everyone else…be surprised if she doesn't have all the homework assignments we're assigned for which year memorised. At least, with the constant change in professors, we don't ever have Defence homework…."

Ginny could get off-track with alarming speed.

"Ginny, you know I don't really get quidditch. I just get drawn into all the fervour that surrounds House matches…and then you, and the boys are on the team…. Besides, I've been dying to know ever since the end of last year…you could borrow some of my notes, even—"

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "I've seen your notes, Hermione. Whenever possible, they're needlessly complicated. Besides, I have a lot of other, more comprehensible people whose old notes I could borrow…that I could actually understand. Sometimes, Hermione, I wonder if you even speak English."

Hermione turned several shades of red at this. One of the drawbacks of being raised amongst so many boys was that Ginny was unjustly direct for a girl her age, and a bit less sensitive. Her assertiveness helped her to hold her own amongst her family, but pushed away prospective friends. Unfortunately for Hermione, she was used to worse behaviour. It did make her wonder what sort of person Luna was, though.

"I'll tell you what, Hermione," said Ginny, realising that she'd angered Hermione. "If you help me practice quidditch so that I can stay on this year's team, at least as reserve, I'll tell you what classes I'm taking."

She rolled her eyes as if this were quite the concession, but Hermione felt her heart beginning to race at the mere thought of taking to the air. She'd never liked flying…and she wasn't any good at it; she knew that.

"Ginny," she squeaked, sounding about five years old. "You know I can't fly"

Ginny shook her head and tossed her hair. "I've heard. That's okay, though. I'm a reserve seeker, in case anything happens to Harry, you know, which it always does. You can just throw golf balls…I've heard that's how Wood tried Harry out…."

Hermione blinked, her heart relaxing. That didn't sound _too_ bad…but it was a bit of exertion for something she'd learn soon anyway, surely. Then again, Ginny was her friend…and Ron's little sister….

"Oh, fine, I'll help you for quidditch," she said, in her sensible, sure-I'll-check-your-homework voice. She'd resent that task less if those whose homework she was checking were stupid, or something, and needed the help.

"It's a deal," said Ginny, eyes sparkling. "And I promise I'll go easy on the quidditch talk."

* * *

Many things could be said about the Quidditch World Cup. It could be said to be noisy, and crowded, and garish. "Subtle", however, it was not. It was no wonder that poor Mr. Roberts was suspicious. Harry grit his teeth and tried not to think about the damage the Obliviators were doing to his mind. Harry was even less tolerant of mind magic than he'd been before he'd _known_.

It was just as well that they had had to wake up as early as they had to reach the hill that had the portkey in time to arrive at the stadium (he was fairly sure that Mr. Weasley had elected to walk rather than drive to ensure that they'd be _awake_, by the time that they arrived; or maybe the Car had made too much of a scene last year, and Mrs. Weasley had put her foot down); it meant that Amos Diggory's exuberance over his son's skill stung less than it might otherwise have—he was not so arrogant or cocky (anymore?), but not so much humbler that he would graciously overlook someone making light of his failure at one of the few things he was good at. That the cause of his defeat in truth lay with the dementors, and what had resulted from even that brief exposure, just rubbed salt into the wound.

At least Cedric was a decent person. As he had in Harry's second year, when Hufflepuff House had been convinced that Harry was Slytherin's Heir (how long ago that seemed!), Cedric tried to silence his dad, but he had no authority over the man. He shot Harry quite a few apologetic and embarrassed looks, and his hands stayed stuck in his jeans pockets. By contrast, Ron looked ready to shoot lightning. The reminder of how near Harry had come to losing his soul was quite enough to push him to the edge, and a lack of sleep didn't help. Harry ended up grabbing hold of his arm, and yanking him away from Mr. Diggory.

Thankfully, the portkey was set to activate soon, and Mr. Weasley had an excuse to cut through Diggory's chatter to issue instructions. This was the first time Harry had ever used a portkey, which made the instructions necessary.

A means of traveling instantaneously across great distances using a physical object? Sounded a bit too _Tesseract_ for him. This was the third kind of wizarding transport that he had encountered, and the first after acknowledging the truth. These two facts combined to ensure that Harry, almost on a whim, but more to spite the universe, opened his seventh sense as far as he could, determined to analyse the makeup of the spell, and see if he could modify or recreate it with the _other_ kind of magic. It wasn't as if he were doing anything else.

It really was as if he were doing something else. There was an unpleasant dangling sensation to distract him, followed by that of being compressed into himself. He thought of Hermione's mention of _mundum aperio_ and polystate matter, as he analysed the spell despite the distraction. It was hardly as great of a distraction as the mortal peril he'd been in at the end of second year, and he'd worked through that.

Unsurprisingly, portkeys functioned by isolating their…victims, compressing them into infinitesimal pieces, and then carrying the thus-lightened load to its intended destination, to which it was attached by a sort of invisible bungee cord

Hmm. He'd have to think about this one.

They had scarce arrived, and registered themselves at the campsite with Mr. Roberts, before Cedric, still looking ashamed and humble, dragged his father away at last, before some sort of fight could break out.

They'd helped Mr. Weasley set up the tents (Hermione was of the most use, here, as she had previous experience camping; he almost forgave her for nearly strangling him in her hug yesterday). Mr. Weasley had finally finished setting up the tents, although it was a team effort. He'd set to building a fire in the firepit, and playing with a box of matches. He sent Harry, Ron, and Hermione off for water. It struck Harry as a phenomenally bad idea to leave Mr. Weasley here to set everything on fire. Muggle children were told not to play with matches, but wizard children clearly weren't.

Harry bit his cheek to keep from making some sort of comment about Ron and his dad having a tendency towards pyromania or setting things on fire in common.

They wandered the campsite, meeting friends and acquaintances—Neville, Seamus, and Oliver Wood. Unfortunately, they also came across Malfoy. Apparently, he had prime tickets, too. Just what Harry wanted, to spend the entire quidditch match with Malfoy, trying to not kill him.

-l-

The match wasn't until the _next_ day, perhaps to give everyone time to arrive. This was when Percy, Charlie, Bill, and Sirius finally showed up. Sirius managed to look incredibly casual, as usual, which seemed to irritate those who weren't terrified of him. They might also have been reacting to his decidedly muggle apparel.

"Hey, Harry. How was your first experience with camping and portkeys, kiddo?" he said, rushing over to crush Harry into a hug. Harry didn't flinch, this time. He was surprised to find that he'd missed Sirius, even for that brief span of time. He wondered how Sirius might have reacted to Amos Diggory's bragging. Probably just as well he hadn't been there—Harry could only hold back one rash and violent individual at a time, and only he could restrain Thor. Still, it made him smile to think that Sirius would most likely have had an amount of paternal outrage at the way Diggory had been speaking.

"It was fine," Harry said, smiling back. "I don't know why you had to stay back, and miss it."

Sirius just laughed. "I have a bit of a surprise for you, is why. If you're ready, Arthur, let's go take our seats."

Only Percy seemed wary of Sirius as they wandered over to the stadium, climbing the steps upon steps leading high above the makeshift pitch. Just what happened to these temporary pitches after the World Cup was over? Did the muggle-repelling charms remain on them? Were they disassembled, and the same pitch was put together year after year at a myriad different locations? If anyone knew, it would probably be Hermione.

They made their way to the Top Box, and Harry did a double take at the unexpected glimpse of bright pink.

"Wotcher, Harry," said Tonks, sounding far too bright and chipper for the early hour. She was smiling brightly, ignoring the way the Malfoys' noses were turned up in disgust. Sirius had done some explaining, but Harry couldn't see how Tonks could possibly be related to Narcissa Malfoy—let alone Draco Malfoy.

"I did say that you'd see me again," came the hoarse voice of Remus Lupin. Harry smiled and nodded at him. "Have you had a good summer, Harry?"

"Of course," Harry said, beaming, now. It was hard not to, when he compared this last summer to every one that came before it. Sirius ran his hands through his hair in a gesture that Harry knew signified despair. Harry could feel the heat of Ron's disapproving glare without needing to turn to look.

"Professor Lupin?" asked one of the Twins, as if Remus were a mirage.

"Hello, again, Fred," said Remus, with a cordial smile. "It's always good to see a friendly face. Come in, come in, sit down, I don't think anyone will mind."

"Malfoy will," someone muttered from behind Harry. It was either Ginny or Hermione.

* * *

To Harry's lasting surprise, he didn't think of Malfoy's odious presence once during the entire game.

Perhaps that was owing to the early distraction of the Bulgarian team's mascots, a dance by a troupe of magical creatures from Bulgaria known as veelas. To all outward appearances, they were beautiful women (later on, they reverted to a more avian form, when angered, throwing fireballs and hissing; it was nasty).

All of the boys stared, as if enraptured, at that long, flowing blonde hair, each of the girls stunning in her own right, inhumanly beautiful, for human they weren't. But there was also a sort of disconnect for Harry and Ron, owing to many years of learnt self-control, perhaps, or a natural shield against the supernatural glamour of the creatures. Gods were not supposed to be vulnerable to such superficial things as inferior systems of magic. Ron gripped the seat in front of him so hard that it began to crack. He kept glancing at Hermione, but didn't seem aware of it.

Harry, feeling like Odysseus, stuffed his fingers in his ears, just in case (he was feeling _some_ sort of pull; he wasn't immune) and shoved up an occlumency wall for good measure. A glance behind them showed that Malfoy Senior had his hand clamped tight around his son's arm, and some sort of protective bubble around his head. Not the bubblehead charm…something that blocked out noise.

Harry wondered what manner of defences you were supposed to use against veelas, and turned to Professor Lupin. He very nearly started at that feral snarl across his kindly ex-professor's face. There was something inhuman, almost, about it, teeth bared, lips drawn way back, eyes narrowed, nose crinkled, a real snarl. The sort you saw on wolves.

Then he noticed the incongruity of the scene, with all at peace about him, and Remus himself clutching a hand tight in his own, not seeming aware that he was doing so, not seeming aware that that hand was even there.

Its owner sat rigidly still, as if afraid to move a muscle. She seemed to be holding her breath. There was a vague sort of smile on her lips.

Hmm.

Professor Lupin seemed distracted, but Harry slunk down in his seat and made his way back to where Tonks and Remus were sitting, Tonks still as if she had been petrified, Remus clutching her hand so hard it turned white. Dared he to interrupt?

He shoved his fingers further into his ears, and realised that no, indeed, he daren't interrupt. He waited, instead, glancing now and then at the dancing veelas, and periodically scanning the crowd, especially those in the Top Box. The Bulgarian Minister seemed to have some sort of antidote to the veelas' hypnotic effects. Fudge's eyes held a glazed look, but he managed to stay seated. Sirius seemed to be enduring through a combination of sheer willpower and occlumency, much as Harry himself. Only Bartemius Crouch seemed unaffected; even Ludo Bagman was puffing himself up more than usual. Crouch might even have looked slightly bored. Were they sure he wasn't a particularly cunning muggle?

Harry sought for every sort of distraction he could, to resist the pull. He noticed that only the boys seemed to feel that pull, and the adults seemed less affected. The girls looked slightly disgusted, or petulant, sulking at the veelas' display of skill—or at the boys' reactions. Ginny was glaring down at them, arms crossed, muttering under her breath.

The song ceased, and Harry nearly sagged with relief. Ron's grip on the chair in front of him came away with pieces of chair attached. Remus's snarl relaxed into a neutral expression, and Sirius stopped looking mildly bored (his way of showing that he was interested in the proceedings).

"Hello, Professor Lupin," Harry said, watching as Remus jerked back into awareness.

"Harry?" he asked, sounding as if perhaps _he_ were now seeing things. "What are you doing out of your seat?"

Harry's gaze flicked around the Top Box, where Malfoy Senior was still restraining his son, Sirius had relaxed, glancing around the crowd as Harry was, and accidentally catching his eyes. He leant back in his seat, head tilted almost straight up, towards the sun. He'd resumed seeming not to pay any attention. Oh, well.

"I just had a quick question," Harry reassured Professor Lupin with a smile. "I just wanted to know how you dealt with veelas."

That was a highly ambiguous statement, if ever there was one.

Activity in the Top Box was still building up for the match. If Harry wanted to receive his explanation it was either ask now, or wait until after the match. Who knew where his mind would be, then?

Professor Lupin hesitated, and seemed to realise that he was holding Tonks's hand. He set it aside gently, completely missing Tonks's disappointed pout.

"Ah, well, Harry, I'm sorry to say it's not something that can be taught. You'll develop a resistance, too, over time—teenagers are particularly susceptible because of hormones, and how new they are to the idea of romance."

He was speaking very quietly, although the match hadn't begun yet. He clearly realised that he was not the most popular individual in the Top Box. Bartemius Crouch seemed to quite deliberately overlook Remus as he shuffled back out of the stands. From what Harry had gathered, despite being one of the key creators of this event, Crouch was fond of neither quidditch nor heights. Which was reasonable, Harry supposed, but it would be tedious if he would keep coming in and out of the stands all game.

As it turned out, this was Crouch's last exit. The rest of the quidditch match was to be completely devoid of _those_ kinds of distractions.

"But how?" asked Harry, into a slightly prolonged pause.

"It's nothing you can learn," Remus protested. "It's only…sure, they look and sound angelic…you would think they were the most beautiful women in the world…but I've seen pictures of what they really look like, and more than that…." He paused, as if thinking hard about what he was going to say, or how he was going to say it. "I think something about them warns me away. I think my…lycanthropy, has a sort of…_feel_ for magical creatures. A sort of sense for them, I suppose, but not one of the usual five senses—I don't have a more developed sense of sight, or hearing, or even of smell. It's as if I have another sense that can detect magic—"

"A sort-of seventh sense," Harry interjected, in his most matter-of fact voice, taking pity on Remus foundering.

"Wh—what?" asked Remus Lupin, paling, clutching the seat upon which he sat. Tonks was staring straight ahead at the proceedings, and seemed unaware of his strange reaction.

"A seventh sense," Harry repeated, bewildered, unable to guess why Remus was behaving thus at all. He hadn't expected to provoke any sort of reaction from him. "Not hearing or sight, not taste, smell, or touch…."

"A sixth sense, then," Sirius abruptly interjected. Harry saw that Sirius's gaze was now fixed upon him, too, expression unreadable.

"Well, no," said Harry, frowning. "It's just what I'd call it—a sort of sense for magic. Even muggles have a sixth sense—some of them. It's why there are ghost stories spread across the muggle world. But that seventh sense would concern purely magical phenomena—their structure, their inherent nature…you know."

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look that Harry couldn't decipher. It was very Twins-conversing-telepathically, the sort of silent conversation that comes of knowing another person very well, usually restricted only to siblings, lovers, and close friends. He granted they fell in the last category, despite their decade at odds with one another.

He wondered just what he was missing, and why they were acting so strange. He'd expected this behaviour to stop once Sirius had been cleared, and was active in his life at long last. Instead, now both of them looked rather pale and drawn, as if trying to solve one of life's great mysteries, under penalty of death, should they fail.

Harry's brow furrowed, and he folded his arms, almost unaware that he was doing so. But he received no further clues to their strange behaviour.

"Yes, well," Remus coughed. "I suppose I'll use your term. The curse inside me recognises the inherent danger of the veela, and helps to ward away their effects. It's not something I can teach you, as you can see."

Harry found himself questioning whether most people—even most wizards, had seventh senses that they could use to analyse magic.

Maybe they didn't. Maybe that was what made Sirius and Remus suspicious, or whatever. Perhaps it was a sign of a dark wizard, or something, as parseltongue had been. It wasn't as if he'd ever mentioned this seventh sense to Ron or Hermione…perhaps it was rare, and inexplicably considered dangerous. The Wizarding World seemed to declare the randomest things dangers. Perhaps he should watch what he said more…but he liked to pretend, at least, that Sinus and Remus would accept him no matter what—as Ron would—although he had no justification for believing this, as he did with Ron.

Perhaps he should keep more of his thoughts and terms himself.

He was positively brooding by the time the match finally started, but he quickly found himself drawn in, forgetting about Professor Lupin's strange behaviour as he followed the action with his eyes (and occasionally his omnioculars, which were excellent for labeling what techniques were being used, if nothing else).

He was as surprised as anyone else at the way the match ended—and he was quite impressed with both teams, in spite of what he'd heard earlier abut the strengths and skills of each team. Krum was quite the impressive quidditch player…he wondered who was better, he or Krum, if it came right down to it….


	79. Masks

**Chapter Seventy-Nine: Masks**

He awoke in the middle of the night from uneasy dreams that defied the excited, charged atmosphere that had permeated the field when he'd gone to bed. They were only dreams, and not either visions or memories—nothing like as important as what seemed to be happening outside. A charged sense of tension and fear permeated the grounds. Screams and the sounds of destruction filled the air

Harry was dressed in his Hogwarts robes, with their wand holster, in a matter of seconds, pulling them on over his oversized pyjamas despite the summer heat. Nearby, he could hear Ron begin to stir. As Harry had, he rolled out of bed, but he didn't bother with the Hogwarts robes—he had no holster, instead grabbing the unicorn-hair willow wand.

Glancing over in Harry's direction, he was visibly unsurprised to see Harry already awake and dressed. He came over to stand next to Harry, waking Fred and George as he did. Harry noticed them, groggy and slow with sleep, rising to wake the rest of the campsite. All of them seemed to know, almost instinctively, to make as little noise as possible, until they knew what the commotion outside _was_. They couldn't risk drawing the attention of an unknown opponent. They were an island of calm amidst the chaotic sea that was the grounds of the World Cup campsite.

"The girls," Ron said, with some focus. "They still do not know—"

"They might," Harry corrected him, but he gave a tight smile. "We should leave the campsite. I am better at not being noticed than you. I will retrieve Hermione and Ginny. We'll head into the woods—we'll be harder to find, there."

Ron gave a tight nod of understanding. And Harry slipped silently out of the tent, as Ron went to find his Dad, and older brothers. Sort-of older brothers. Whatever.

He checked for any sort of magic that would hinder his entry into the girls' tent, thinking of Hogwarts's protected stairs leading to the girls dorms. He found none, and slipped silently inside. Ginny was wide-awake, already, and in the process of waking Hermione.

She noticed the slight noise he made as he entered, which was impressive in itself, and whirled to face him, wand pointed in his direction. She saw who it was, and her eyes widened, grip on her wand slackening as her hand began to shake. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh—oh, Harry! You heard…."

"I heard," Harry agreed, left hand in his pocket. "I don't know what's going on, however. Shall we go? Ron promised to meet us further out, in the forest…if he doesn't catch up first; it is some distance."

Hermione fumbled for her dragon-heartstring-and-vine wand, and once her hand made contact with it, seemed much more awake.

"It sounds awful," she said, after a moment, face ashen. "Are you sure we should be going out there?"

Harry cocked his head, listening, spreading out his seventh sense. He turned to face her, still listening hard. "…Yes. We don't know who it is, but we should go while they're still distant. We don't know what they'll do if they find us. But judging by the screams…I'd rather not be here when they arrive."

Ginny shuddered, hugging herself as if for warmth.

Hermione was equally wide-awake, now, and ready to turn insensate with panic. He frowned at her. "Ginny, can you ensure that Hermione keeps moving?" he asked, and reached for Hermione's arm. She jerked it away from him, scowling.

"I won't freeze up, Harry," she said, eyes narrowed. She looked much as she had during the earlier discussion of house-elf rights. Sure, Harry pitied Winky, but he also understood that society tended to be built in pyramidal structures. House-elves were at the bottom, which made them sort-of building blocks for wizarding society…although, only the rich had them. Why?

It had been a long discussion, and Hermione had been at the verge of tears at the end, before she'd stormed off. Ron had no idea what her problem was; Harry understood, but recognised that he knew too little of wizarding society to take a side: was Dobby an anomaly, and house-elves were genuinely happy being mistreated, as long as they could serve? They weren't human, and he knew full well how dangerous it was to ascribe human mentalities onto even humanoid beings. But then, maybe Dobby was only anomalous in that he'd somehow avoided what Hermione had called house-elf "brainwashing". The entire conversation had been one he'd tried to edge out of, only for Hermione to keep dragging him back in. That she was fixing him with that same glare, now, did not bode well.

He decided to keep a close eye on her, but take his chances. He glanced at Ginny, who shrugged. Her hair was messy and untidy as it had been during the Chamber of Secrets debacle in her first year, and for a moment, his fist clenched tight over the handle of his wand, transported back to a similar dangerous time. But he'd endured then, and he would now.

Of course, he was rather a different person, now.

He led them out of the tent, keeping a wary eye out to see if he could spot the threat. He made the amateur's mistake of not looking _up_. It was surprisingly easy to forget the casual use of levitation that wizards employed. But Hermione had a mind like a steel trap, and considered all possibilities, or just happened to look up, and spot the grotesque spectacle of the Roberts family, bobbing around, inflated like floats at a parade, held up by several beams of light. They were high up in the air. If those lights disappeared….

Harry wrenched his gaze away. Muggle-baiting. Right. Well, that was Death Eater mentality—although not only they, sadly. Still…the screams, the panic….

He glanced at Hermione, the only muggleborn amongst them, and bit his lip. Suddenly, the forest seemed their only chance.

Ron appeared behind them, muttering something about the Twins, Percy, Bill, and Charlie helping their Dad. Sirius, Remus, and Tonks were located elsewhere in the campsite. Harry silently hoped that they were well and safe, but he'd seen each of them fight, for himself. They were probably alright…. Remus and Sirius had been in the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry thought fast, weighed the merits of using some means of concealing themselves, hiding themselves from sight. He thought first of his Dad's invisibility cloak, dismissing it right away. He thought of the Disillusionment Charm. That was…let's see, a sixth-year spell? Very complex. Probably only he and Hermione knew it. And he knew that they didn't want to hide. Not really. Invisibility and semi-visibility were mixed blessings in such a situation. The purpose of invisibility was to make you harder to see, and therefore more difficult to notice, or to find. The problem was that they _did_ want to be found—it was only the men torturing muggles that they didn't want to notice them. They needed to rendezvous with Fred and George, or Bill and Charlie, or Mr. Weasley, at some point.

But Hermione…if Malfoy had done them one favour, it was to let them know that it wasn't enough for purebloods that someone was a wizard or a witch—they had to be halfblood, at the very least. Hermione was a muggleborn. There was a possibility, however slight, that they might even attempt to harm her. He bit his lip, and turned to her, as Ron and Ginny pulled ahead.

"Hermione, if you know the Disillusionment Charm—and I'm sure you do, if _I_ know it—I think you should use it. As long as you stay close, you should be fine. It's safer than an invisibility cloak, when we're not trying to hide…."

Hermione frowned at him, and seemed to be setting herself up to argue with him, but he grabbed hold of her upper arm, and tugged her towards Ron and Ginny. He remembered that she was the only non-"athlete" of their group. While Ron and even Ginny could keep up with Harry, Hermione would need some help—most of her muscles were dedicated to lugging around heavy textbooks, power and not speed, arms and back, not legs. He ignored her protests, and dragged her to catch up with Ron and Ginny.

She glared at him, and refused to cast the charm. They could all three of them be quite stubborn, even to their own detriment, he mused. He cast the spell on her, instead, and she glared at him. Ron looked between the two of them, clearly at a loss as to the nature of their conflict, which, to be fair, so was Harry. He shrugged.

"Shall we move on, then?" he asked, and Ron blinked, looking slightly alarmed. Oh. Well, that tone of voice sometimes came in useful, but he had probably been better off when he kept his two lives rigidly separated.

The four of them had only made it a short ways before they came across a girl with long brown hair, in tears. Harry noted the sheer, delicate-looking fabric she wore, much unsuitable for traveling through woods. It would be torn to shreds within minutes—that was, unless it were made of something much stronger than it looked. In wizarding society, that was more likely than not.

"_Where is Madame Maxime? We have lost her…_" she asked, in rapid French. She reached out, clutching at them with her hands outstretched. Harry blinked, several times, surprised that he could understand her.

Then he sighed. It probably made sense that at home they'd had to learn whatever language was the _lingua franca_ on Midgard—on Earth—at any given point of time. He'd missed Greek, and Latin, but French? English? He and Thor both must know those. Not a missing memory, rather knowledge, compressed, unaccessed until now. How frustrating, to know things without knowing that you knew them. He was almost inclined to sulk.

"_Who?_" he asked, his French managing to _sound_ stilted and rusty, even in that single syllable. He almost shook his head, almost cleared his throat, as if either of those would help. Ron glanced at him, and then glanced away. Hermione scowled at him—or he thought that she did, knowing her. She was still disillusioned, and that made it a bit difficult to tell facial expressions. Ginny's was much easier to read: she looked stumped, and utterly lost. She was probably the only one there who didn't understand _any_ French.

"_That's impossible!_" the girl said. "_How can one not know his headmistress?_ Ah!" She glanced at Harry's Hogwarts robes in the light of the gibbous moon. "_Hogwarts_."

Harry glanced back at the excitement behind them. "Well, yes," he said, switching to English, following her lead without paying attention to what he was doing, glancing back at the floating family. Were they headed this way? He was almost sure that they were. He turned back to face her. "Is that a problem?"

"You can't help me find our headmistress if you don't know who she is," the girl said, tilting her head back and assuming a rather haughty pose. "You had best move along. I'll look on my own."

She marched off, parallel to the border of the forest. Well, at least she was moving away from the Death Eaters, or whoever was running the "show" here.

"_Beauxbatons_," said Hermione, some of her spirit returning to her at the reminder that she could rub her superior knowledge banks in their faces. She led the way, now, towards the woods. They were almost there. "A school on the continent. No one knows where, of course…just as no one knows where Durmstrang or Hogwarts are…."

"Showing off even outside of school, Granger?" asked a familiar drawl, and the group of four turned as one. Someone groaned in frustration. He thought it was Ginny.

Malfoy stood leaning against a tree at the forest's edge, arms folded, head tilted back to watch the muggles floating in the air, with a satisfied smirk. Then he glanced down at them. "Running for cover, are you? Smart. You don't want your mudblood friend to be found here. Not if you don't want her showing her underwear to the world like that muggle woman." His grin was something between predatory and just plain sadistic, and seemed to be full of sharp teeth. There was probably a spell to accomplish just that.

Malfoy seemed in his element, cool and poised, secure in the knowledge that, as he was a pureblood, and his father was a Death Eater, he was safe from anyone making sport of muggles.

"And how do you know that they aren't just levitating anyone who can't defend themselves—like the underage?" asked Harry, cocking his head. "Is your father perhaps down there, wearing a mask and levitating innocent muggles for sport?"

Malfoy's grin widened. "Well, if he were, I'd hardly tell _you_, would I, Potter?" he asked, knowing he had the upper hand. "If I were you, I'd tell Granger to run, and keep her bushy-haired head down. Anyone with any knowledge can spot a mudblood from a mile off—"

"I would have greater care how I spoke of her, if I were you," Ron growled, rounding on Malfoy, plans to take refuge momentarily forgotten. Harry sighed, and facepalmed. Sometimes, rolling your eyes was just not enough. He narrowed his eyes, directing his glare at Malfoy, who deserved it more.

"Hermione is a witch," he said. "They have no cause to torment her. And if they do…we all know who would be responsible. The only reason that they would come after her would be if you told them where she is…after all, she _is_ hiding."

Hermione did not quite have the nerve to glare at him for this comment.

"You're an evil, nasty little—" Ginny began, but Malfoy cut her off as if she hadn't spoken.

"Just consider it my revenge for stealing my wand, again. I didn't provoke _you_, this time," he said. Harry paused, cocking his head to the side.

"…_Again_?" he repeated, glancing over at Ron to try to see if he'd taken the same meaning. "Malfoy, I haven't said two words, nor come within five steps of you. I assumed the match was neutral territory, y'know…not about to try stealing your wand, unless you threaten us, as you just did…."

"Don't lie to me, Potter! I had it in the Top Box, and now it's missing! Who _else_ would have taken it, hmm?"

"Don't make so much noise," Ginny said, eyes wide and wild, as she scanned the grounds. The levitating muggles were coming closer.

"Malfoy, I didn't steal your wand. If you misplaced it, I can hardly be faulted, and either way, _Hermione_ doesn't deserve to suffer. Keep silent, let them pass, and I will help you look for it."

He held out a hand, as if offering something physical. Sirius, Remus, and Tonks were out there, perhaps looking for them. With Ron staying with Hermione and Ginny, they were more than sufficiently protected. If this were a trap, he could hold his own against Malfoy, and he still had the cloak.

"A likely story," Malfoy said, with his trademark sneer. "I suppose you gave it to one of them. Well, I won't—"

"You refuse my offer?" asked Harry, voice very low, painfully aware of how little time they had. He tilted his head to the side. Malfoy was alone and defenceless, but he needed no defence, unlike Hermione. He had all but confessed that his father was one of the masked men puppeteering (he shuddered at the thought). They didn't have time for this nonsense. It was worse than first year, the night they'd broken into the Forbidden Corridor.

Ignoring whatever aborted motions Ron and Ginny were making, whatever their intentions were in his direction, Harry pointed at Malfoy, and said, "_stupefy_!"

"Harry!" Hermione scolded him, immediately. "He doesn't have any defences, and you just—"

"He doesn't need any, but he could have told the Death Eaters where we were. He's better off out cold. Besides: it's not murder if it's Malfoy," Harry said, coldly. He marched off for the forest, with Ron following close behind, trying to head him off.

Hermione lagged behind, uncertain as to whether they should _really_ leave Malfoy alone, knowing Harry too well to trust his judgement, at least not where Malfoy was concerned.

"Hermione is right. We cannot merely leave Malfoy to fend for himself," Ron protested, reaching out to grab hold of Harry's forearm, forcing him to stop. Going was slower through these trees, anyway. Harry hadn't made it far. Harry tried to dislodge the hand, but Ron had a strong grip, of course. That was most unfair.

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Hermione knows the countercurse, if she is _that_ concerned," he snapped. "Are you not upset that he threatened her?" he demanded, anger thick in his words.

Ron bowed his head, and let go. "I would prefer that you not do something that you would later regret."

Harry took the opportunity to forge ahead, anger still making his thoughts churn like whitewater rapids. It was not a smart course of action, but the knowledge of this fact only made him angrier. He even felt like kicking or hitting something.

Ginny fell behind, what with how she was human, and all, with no divine background of any kind. He was, if barely, aware of her calling out for him to slow down, as she tried to avoid grasping branches. He did not slow until Ron's hand landed hard on his shoulder, and turned him around to face him.

He could feel a reproach coming, and his conscience twinged—he knew how important it was that they not become separated, and they'd lost Ginny and Hermione both. They would have to backtrack.

"I'm sorry, Ron," he said, bowing his head, looking down at the ground before Ron could scold him. "I shouldn't have let my anger get the best of me—you would think I would know better, with you as an example, but I—"

"You have told me often of the dangers of impulsive action, Brother," Ron said, but his stance was more relaxed now, less aggressive. "We are, perhaps, all rather tenser than we should be,"

Harry straightened up, left arm spread. He'd wondered, occasionally, how it would feel. He was underwhelmed. If he experienced some great sort of metamorphosis, it was lost under his general tight focus on the moment. But he had enough to spare to shoot Ron a rather cold smile.

"And _you_ clearly do not know the Rules of Invocation. They are simple. I will have to teach you sometime…strange, I wondered how it would feel. I confess myself underwhelmed. Another side effect of the dementors, no doubt."

"What are you—?" Ron—Thor—began, but Harry shot him a glare.

"Silence is the order of the hour. Especially for _you_," he said, glancing through the trees. "Wait _here_."

It was not usual behaviour for him to enact such a plan, or to go off on his own during one of their inevitable excursions into danger. He knew that, and he was sure Ron must be confused, and have no idea what was going on, what he'd said, what he'd done. That undercurrent of emotion, whatever it was, that underlay Harry's actions, was in no way attached to recent events.

Mother's armour hadn't formed. He hadn't had the opportunity to use it for over a year. That was an odd thought, and likely did not bode well for the coming year. How long could he escape the threats that necessitated its use? Last year was a reprieve, but reprieves never lasted. Discontent, anxiety towards threats in two theatres, too many fronts, perhaps ate away at his tolerance.

Ron did not deserve his ire. _Thor_ did not deserve his ire. But he received it, as the only one present strong enough to take it.

"Have you found Hermione?" he whispered to Ginny, as he finally came across her, again. If she noticed anything strange about his behaviour, she doubtless chalked it up to his usual unpredictability. Ginny was very pale, but hearing his voice, red rushed into her face.

"_You_! If anything has happened to her, it's your fault! I—"

He clapped a hand over her mouth, reluctant to use more magic than he had to. The Ministry being who they were, he didn't trust them not to lay him out for breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Even if he _was_ the "Boy-Who-Lived".

"Shh! The idea is _not_ to draw their attention," he said, staring her down. Outwardly, he probably seemed much calmer than usual. His stance was deliberately casual and relaxed. He'd seen Sirius adopt the same casual wariness, and was fairly sure that Ron had noticed some sort of commonality in their behaviour. It was because of their similar backgrounds. The Blacks were practically royalty, in the eyes of Wizarding Britain, and Harry….

He sighed. He withdrew his hand, as if Ginny had needed the reminder, and now that she'd been told to, she would behave.

She should have been suspicious, when he hadn't flinched at her raised voice, in an already tense situation.

"You left Hermione behind, there! How are we going to find her?"

At least she was keeping her voice down.

"Stay here," he ordered her, affecting not to notice the way her eyes narrowed at being _ordered_. "I shall look for her." He gave her an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Confusion replaced her anger. She uncrossed her arms, rubbing at them as if folding them had bruised them, or something. Her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, and he turned to stare at her. He would not have been surprised if she'd recoiled at his expression, but she alone among them had suffered anything like what he had. "_He has given us something in common_", he remembered telling her, an island in the midst of his sea of denial in second year. He gave her a tight, quite insincere, smile.

"I'm fine," he said. She narrowed her eyes in response.

"No, you aren't. You listen to me—"

Reminding himself of the end of first year for the second time in less than an hour, he slipped away as she was speaking to him. He needed light. It would serve as a beacon for Hermione, help her to find him, and help distort the light around her, disrupting the spell slightly.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, funneling the _other_ magic into the spell to strengthen it. He made for where he thought that they'd left Malfoy.

"You _jerk_," cried a voice. "I can't believe you left me behind. What were you thinking?"

"Hush, Hermione," he said. His voice was very level, and difficult to hear over the sound of her tirade. She had to cut herself off to hear him. "Follow me. I'll lead you back."

He held out a hand, but she stared at it in overt suspicion.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?" she demanded. She was quite difficult to see, but he was sure that her eyes were narrowed at him. He sighed.

"I _am_ Harry Potter," he said, still in that too-quiet voice. "And I think that you're overreacting a bit. And yes, I left you behind, but I came back for you as soon as I calmed down."

He was not calm. He might sound calm, but he was far from it. But Hermione seemed not to realise this. She didn't see the hard set to his face, the anger that doubtless still sparked in his eyes, belying that external façade of calm.

He reached out, and took hold of her arm, dragging her away, deeper into the forest, before she could formulate a response. A _silencio_ or two would not go amiss, he thought to himself, as he canceled the light-projecting spell. Hermione stumbled along behind him, no match for his pace, but he ignored any requests that he slow down.

"What has gotten into you?" she snapped, as they finally stopped beside Ginny.

"Now is not the time, Hermione," he said, running his left hand, with which he'd been grasping her arm, through his hair. "And you should keep your voice down."

"How can you be so _calm_?" she snapped. "And…and since _when_ are you such a task-driver? Didn't you hear me say I couldn't keep up with you? Are you listening to me, Harry?"

"_Silencio_," he said, pointing at Hermione. She glared at him, but she hadn't studied non-verbal magic, which meant that she couldn't cast any spells to undo her silencing. Now she would know to study it, he mused.

Ginny gasped, eyes wide. "What is _wrong_ with you? Why did you just—?"

"Good. Everyone is accounted for," said Ron, appearing as if from nowhere. Harry turned to face him.

"Something's wrong with Harry," said Ginny, instantly. "You have to—"

"Nothing is wrong with me," Harry said, cutting her off. "We should leave. I had to use a _lumos_ spell to find Hermione—"

"—and then you _silenced_ her—" interjected Ginny.

"—which may have called attention to our whereabouts. I could hope that it would be Sirius, Remus, Tonks, or your family who would find us, but since when have we ever been that lucky?" he asked, with a bitter, helpless laugh.

Ron stared at him for a moment, and then looked from Harry to the girls, and back, with something that might have been dawning realisation…or horror.

Or both.

"You—"

"Get down!" Harry snapped, sending out a wave of defensive magic to cancel whatever his seventh sense was warning him was coming. It barely had time to warn him that magic was gathering nearby before its release. Not enough time for Harry's spell—or his words—to make a difference. And if his seventh sense _hadn't_ been wide open, he wouldn't have known at all. He frowned.

Thankfully, the spell was not an attack.

"_Morsmordre!_" cried an unfamiliar, deep voice. All that happened was that the Dark Mark, which before he'd seen only in textbooks, shot into the sky. His gaze whipped to the source, homing in on the point from which he'd felt the magic build. But before he could do anything—

"_Stupefy_!" cried a voice, and the four of them, already on edge, ducked, and the spell didn't hit any of them. There was a sharp expulsion of air from the source of the spell, which was a relief, but—

"Stay where you are! Don't move!" cried the voice of Bartemius Crouch.

But, of course, they'd be in trouble, anyway.

At least they weren't in danger, anymore.


	80. The Rules of Invocation

**Chapter Eighty: The Rules of Invocation**

It took over half an hour to get things straightened out again. Bartemius Crouch was alarming, eyes practically popping from his sockets; in his muggle three-piece suit, he reminded Harry too much of Uncle Vernon. He was alarming, and the fact that he was alarmed just fed that undercurrent of discontent. But Harry kept calm, as best he could.

Crouch slowed the investigation down several times, going off on this or that tangent, insisting upon searching the forest again even after they'd found Winky in the grass, where Hermione had pointed her out. But Diggory had been the one to accuse Hermione of casting the Mark, even though she was both silenced and a muggleborn. The whole thing was a mess.

Ginny had taken the opportunity to pipe up, before anyone else could say anything, about how Harry had silenced Hermione, and the adults had canceled Harry's disillusionment and silencing charms. Well, at least they were safe now. He supposed that there was no true further need for them.

Harry was nevertheless almost inclined to sulk. He stood to the side, not looking at anyone, until the inevitable happened, and _he_ was accused of having cast the Mark. Then, he looked up at his accuser (Diggory again, of course) through his bangs. He should have seen it coming. He must give off villain vibes, still, if there were such things. He glanced over at Ron, lifting his head as a sign that he held Ron in greater esteem than Crouch and Diggory combined. Ron's expression was tight with his concern for Harry.

Sirius, Tonks, and Remus arrived at about that point, Tonks clutching her arms, which were streaked with several thin lines of red. "It's alright," she said, beaming 'round the clearing before anyone could ask. "These tress are just vicious, is all."

She underscored her point by losing her balance, windmilling around, and getting snagged a few times by the trees a good five feet from where she'd landed.

"You okay, kids? Harry?" asked Sirius, both hands out of his pockets—he was making no attempt to be casual—as he looked them all over. Harry bowed his head, and looked away.

Harry had no good answer for him. He was fairly sure that all three of his closest friends were currently not-on-speaking-terms with him, but at least he still had Sirius, and Remus.

"There must be some sort of mistake, here," Remus said, calmly surveying the scene. He noted Winky, sobbing still at Crouch's threat of clothes, the two adults still glancing at Harry and company as if expecting to be attacked.

With Remus, Sirius, and the actual auror, Tonks, on the scene, they didn't dare to do anything.

"How did you find us?" asked Ginny. Harry turned to stare at her. "What? You know you're his first priority. He came right _here_; he knew you were here, somehow."

Harry blinked. She might well have a point. Sirius had sworn not to leave him alone in harm's way, again. He might well have just known where Harry was.

Sirius gave a casual shrug "I thought something seemed different this way," he said. "And Remus agreed. Hadn't expected the Dark Mark to show up. That must mean that the Death Eaters are nearby…."

"And why are you not pursuing them, Auror Tonks?" Crouch demanded, turning to her. It took Harry a moment to remember that Tonks was not, in fact, Tonks's given name.

"I'm not on-duty, and besides that, the Death Eaters all scattered when they saw the Mark…it's as if it scared them off."

"Well, regardless of the intentions of the caster, we should treat him as a Death Eater, and a priority to find," said Crouch. "And you should get to work rounding up those Death Eaters."

"They'll have gone to ground by now," Sirius spat. "Why don't we concentrate on getting the kids to safety, if that's okay with you?"

Without waiting for a response, he pushed through the square to Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione.

"They are witnesses, and will need to be thoroughly interrogated—"

"Ah, shove it," said Sirius, rounding on Crouch. "As if _you_ care about interrogating witnesses, or law."

There was a sudden thick tension in the clearing.

"Come on, kids…let's get you back to your campsite. I'll stay with you. See what happens if I let you out of my sight for a few hours! I hadn't realised that the Ministry is still so inept!"

He shot another dagger glare at Crouch.

"I'll settle things here, and find my kids; we'll meet up back at the campsite," said Arthur Weasley, sounding haggard and worn.

Sirius gave him a curt nod, his eyes still flinty and sparking, until he turned back to the four sort-of underage sort-of wizards.

"Remus? Tonks?" he called over his shoulder.

"I'll see what I can do to round up the Death Eaters," said Tonks, her voice devoid of its usual energy.

"I'll help you bring the kids back," said Remus, who sounded even more tired, but his eyes were alert, and his voice was steady.

Sirius didn't wait to receive permission from Crouch, instead giving the four kids a nod, and leading them away from the scene of the crime.

And he _did_ spend the night in the "crowded" boys tent.

* * *

In the days that followed, there'd been little time to talk in private, but Harry had apologised for his behaviour to both Hermione and Ginny. They'd both gradually thawed towards him, again, Ginny faster than Hermione. She both understood things about him that Hermione likely never would, and owed him, besides. Furthermore, she hadn't received the worst of his actions. Her anger was for Hermione's benefit.

Ron managed to hold onto his knowledge of what Harry had said through all this time—the trip to Diagon Alley; the fussing of Mrs. Weasley; the long hours Arthur Weasley put in after the attack, which had the entire household tense; the frequent disappearances of Sirius to help with trying to find any of the Death Eaters, who had, of course, gone to ground, and were lying low. Sirius seemed to spend as much time as he could with Harry, as if to make up for twice having failed him, not being there when Harry needed him. All in all, they hardly had a moment to themselves.

Still, as time passed, things gradually cooled down, and Arthur Weasley could spend more time at home with the children who still were living at The Burrow: Fred, George, Ginny, and Ron. He was tired and harassed, but he tried to put his best face on things. Mrs. Weasley seemed to realise that Death Eaters were not about to come knocking, and stopped checking her clock every hour. Sirius let Harry out of his sight for entire half-hour spans of time. People were beginning to come back to their senses.

This was when Ron took the opportunity to take Harry aside, to speak to him in private in the garden, which was rather larger than that of Number Four, but which Harry had no responsibility of tending, and therefore appreciated far more.

"What are the Rules of Invocation, Brother?" he asked, staring out across the garden, which was filling with gnomes, of course. Harry's head snapped up and over to him.

"Where have you heard that term?" he demanded, standing up from where he _had_ been sitting on a rock. Ron—Thor—did not seem to understand why Harry would suddenly be on edge.

"You used that term yourself, during the attack," he said, frowning. "Do you not remember?"

Harry thought back to that night, how suddenly he'd switched from contrition—the sentiment of the moment—to a more long-term wariness, underscored with…something.

"I remember," he said, voice quieter than it needed to be. Were Ron human, he would need to strain to hear Harry. Oh, well.

He paused to gather his thoughts, and Thor continued, "You told me that you would inform me as to what these…'rules of invocation' were, at a later date."

"They are little more than an excuse for my behaviour during the attack," Harry said, with a grim smile. "'What's in a name?' Shakespeare's Juliet asked. 'That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet'. But roses are inanimate objects…biology tells us that plants are living organisms, but that does not change the fact that plants are devoid of consciousness and identity. They are only what we thinking beings name them."

Thor, to his credit, did not ask what relevance this had to the discussion at hand. He waited. Harry knew that he could outwait Thor, but that was not the point of this discussion. In actual point of fact, they should have had this conversation before, but so much had happened after the Big Secret came into the open. He thought he could not be blamed if such had slipped his mind. He sat back down, clasping his hands before him, thinking of what to say.

"Dumbledore makes the same mistake. He acts as if 'Riddle' and 'Voldemort' and 'You-Know-Who' are all names with the same substance and meaning. But they are not. Riddle needed to die before 'Voldemort' could be born, and 'You-Know-Who' is the culmination of his ascent. Perhaps all villains undergo some similar process: the death of the old to make way for the new. By calling him 'Riddle', we make note of the fact that he is, despite what he has done, only a human, only a mortal man. They are shades of meaning to the same person. Shades of identity. But he is hardly alone in that respect."

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. The sun was warm on his face; it was the middle of summer, and England had yet to hide itself under a blanket of clouds this week. It probably would continue for the rest of the week. Smart people were finding activities that would help them to cool down, or staying indoors. Only idiots stayed out in a garden in this weather. It gave him further hope that they would not be overheard; even the Twins and Ginny were staying indoors, out of the heat.

"Everyone has such shades to their identity—even you. The man called 'son' is not the same man as the one called 'brother', is not the same man as the one called 'friend', is not the same as the one called 'teacher'. They might refer to the same individual, but social context brings out different shades of personality in the same person. And the man who is called 'daddy' is different from the one called 'dad' is different from the one named 'father'. Would anyone ever be able to bring themselves to call your father '_Dad_'? No. He is too remote, too distinct, too aloof, and those names are too soft."

"He is your father, too," Thor had to interject. In other circumstances, Harry might have argued with him, but he'd made his point clear, he thought.

"I know your opinion of the matter. But that is not the point of this discussion. What is relevant is that no one could call him by such a soft name without mocking him. He is not soft. Mother might…no, she too is remote, distant, if less. It does not suit her.

"Even amongst families, a nickname is different from a full name. Do you suppose that Bill is the same when he is called William? And what of Fred? Ginny? Charlie? Percy? Such diminutive names evoke that same mildness, affection, closeness, to a lesser degree."

Thor was growing impatient. Harry could almost _feel_ it, as if it were a rise in temperature in their immediate area. Perhaps he'd laid enough background for his explanation. He opened his eyes, casting a dismissive glance at Thor.

"And you, Brother. Do you suppose that 'Thor' and 'Ron' refer to the exact same person?"

Thor thought of his dreams, and shifted, suddenly uneasy, perhaps even sensing the direction this conversation was headed.

"And I," said Harry, his voice softer, and smoother on account of its softness, as his explanation reached its conclusion. "I am all pieces and personalities regardless. Does it surprise you if one of them is named 'Harry', and the other 'Loki'? And is Loki not also called 'Brother', and Harry 'little brother', for he is still a child? Does it alarm you, does it surprise you, if all you need do to speak with one or the other is to change your form of address? I no longer have my denial to shield me, after all."

Thor took a moment to understand, to wade through all of the exposition to find the point. Harry himself thought he had probably intended just that effect. Thor's expression was unreadable. He took a step forward.

He didn't comment on how disturbing it was to hear Harry speak of himself in the third person. This time.

"_Loki_?" he asked. "Have I made you into what you are not?"

"Shades of identity. Different values of the same colour. I could fight it off—a man always has a choice whether or not to don the mask society tries to force upon him—but it is always easier to 'go with the flow'. I found a place between that part of my soul that serves as a bulwark against…against _Thanos_, and who I usually am. And now, you know to be cautious in how you address me. You would not wish to invoke your brother, Loki, so casually. Does he ever appear without collateral damage?"

He smiled, but it was a cold, bitter smile. He spread his hands, but it was not a welcoming gesture, as it might be expected to be in other circumstances. Thor hesitated, but, gryffindor that he was, pushed forwards through the grass until he met Harry's rock. Harry frowned, letting his arms fall, trying to puzzle him out. Thor gave no ground in this matter.

"You are my brother, regardless of which name you answer to," he said. "It is little matter for me. It troubles only you."

"Ginny and Hermione seemed upset with my behaviour," Harry said, with false levity that had Thor frowning. "I was not _nice_."

"They will accustom themselves to your behaviour," Thor promised. "They will understand, in time. Hermione deserves to know."

"And Ginny deserves to know your secret," Harry said, voice almost a whisper. "Will you tell them now, then?"

The obvious answer was 'yes', but the right choice was too difficult to make at this point in time. He needed time.

As he had needed time to confront Harry…and see how that had turned out! And yet, despite this argument, still he hesitated.

"You are too afraid to lose them, then?" asked Harry, still with that cold smile, looking down at Thor. It grated at him. If he hit the rock, it might shatter, but Mum would be most displeased. She liked the aesthetic it provided. He restrained himself.

"Well, never fear," said Harry, holding out a hand for him. "You will always have _me_. Cold comfort though I suppose that is, for you."

It was not cold comfort at all. It was what he had gone back in time for, that and the chance to save his mother's and brother's lives.

"Will you promise that?" asked Thor, for once feeling like a teenager—or how he supposed a teenager ought to feel. Almost, it was like stepping back in time.

Harry said nothing, but stayed completely still. He waited. They both knew that Harry could outwait him. He reached for Harry's hand, with some trepidation, and Harry pulled him up, with little visible effort. The rock was not so very high that it afforded a better vantage than the ground—only a foot or so higher, where he now stood, than where he had been. There was no danger, if either of them lost their footing and fell.

"You sacrificed quite a bit for me," Harry—Loki—mused. "I suppose I might be more grateful. You have sworn to help me against Thanos. Then, let us make common cause, and no longer be at odds. I have tired of that, anyway. What say you?"

"I have sworn to be your sole sentinel, if you require it of me. And I will never be your enemy," Thor replied, hunting down elusive words. He was no wordmaster, and he knew he often said the wrong things. But he added, anyway, "I once swore an oath."

Loki's face, when Thor looked, was blank. "I remember," he said, and his voice was flat. Then, he sighed. "As did I. And I have failed to live up to my part of the bargain. I will do better, from now on. Very well, I will promise that I will help you. You are, after all, my brother."

For a moment, his hand met Thor's shoulder. Then, Harry pushed off against him, off the rock, and was gone.

Dramatic, as usual. And yet, the familiarity of it, the memories it revived for him, made Thor smile, despite himself. Family was family. Tony had never had siblings; he could not be expected to understand.

* * *

It was time to return to Hogwarts before any of them were prepared. Superficially, they were ready—they had all of their supplies, from the mysterious new requirement of dress robes, to the familiar textbooks; their homework had been finished months ago, and everyone had packed as much as they could the night before. But, somehow, the Quidditch World Cup had made the break seem shorter than it was. No one felt _ready_ for school to resume. Even Hermione was in a state, wandering the house, muttering to herself. Sirius made the mistake of accusing her of behaving just like the Black family house-elf, Kreacher, and was drawn into a tirade regarding house-elf rights. There was little forewarning; he sat in shock for several seconds.

"Now, Hermione, you haven't even _met_ Kreacher. I'm all for house-elf rights, but Kreacher is just…Kreacher. Follower of my parents' disgusting pure-blood politics, and all. Worships my mad cousin Bellatrix, even. Real piece of work, that woman was, _before_ she went to Azkaban. I shudder to think of what she might have become, in the interim. Rumour has it that although she married Lestrange, she was _in love with_ Voldemort. Just for a sample of her particular brand of crazy. Kreacher'd probably die, if doing that would advance Voldemort's agenda. His life's ambition is to have his head whacked off and mounted on the hallway wall. House-elves are like human beings, Hermione. Some of them want one thing, others want another, and some are so crazy they're a danger to themselves and others. That's Kreacher."

He was very firm with her, but somehow also civil. It was a difficult dance. Hermione was passionate about all of her endeavours, and this house-elf rights thing was shaping into a crusade. No one wanted any part of it, with the possible exception of Sirius. Harry felt that he didn't understand wizarding society enough to take part, and was leary of anthropomorphising anything that wasn't human, anyway. Ron, perhaps thinking that he wouldn't be part of this world long enough to make a real difference, or perhaps just following Harry's lead (who knew?) bowed out of the discussion. Hermione was ready to hiss sparks. She was reminding everyone of her cat, if much prettier and less violent.

Hermione might be on the verge of hysterics, but _everyone_ was pacified, for different reasons, by the approaching school year. Sirius took Harry aside, and shoved a bubblewrapped package into his hands.

Harry glanced down at it, and then glanced back up, through his bangs, at Sirius. There was an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Two-way mirrors," Sirius said, giving a succinct explanation. "Your dad and I used to use them to talk to each other when we had separate detentions. If you need me for anything, just say my name into the glass, see. I'll keep it on me at all times…well, maybe not when I'm taking a shower, eh, kiddo? Keep it with you. Call me if you need advice, or help—anything. I don't want you to ever feel you've got no other choice—that you have no one to turn to."

He bent down to give Harry a hug, and a kiss on the forehead, just as if he were Harry's real dad, or something. It made Harry realise, for the first time, that Sirius was like Thor in that respect also: he was such the quintessential masculine man that he could afford to be more in touch with his feminine side, doing things people usually gave men strange looks for doing. It was an odd realisation.

"Anytime, kiddo. I mean it," Sirius said again.

Harry just stared, a bit lost. He had no background to know how to respond.


	81. This Year's Threat

**author's note:** Thanks to an anonymous reviewer, I remember why I hated editing/writing/rereading book IV so much, and come beseeching you for your advice. The problem with book IV, other than I can't write romance, is that Ginny is kind of out-of-character for the entire book (most of the book). Instead of being her usual self, she stubbornly insisted on being a less logical version of Hermione. I'm at a loss.  
Don't worry: she should be back in character by the end of the book. Thus far, my only plausible solution is to include some more scenes with her in it, to try, at least, to explain her inconsistencies in characterisation, which do have reasons for them. Sorry, Ginny lovers!  
On the plus side, my chapter order for Book V seems to check out!  
...Although, I still haven't edited it yet, so it's still once a week for me!**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-One: This Year's Threat**

This year, most unfortunately, they did not have insurance against Malfoy. No teachers were waiting in their usual compartment; they had it quite to themselves, just the three of them. Even Ginny had gone off somewhere else, with a smile and a wave at Harry.

Hermione tried to take the opportunity of the long train ride to speak with them about house-elf rights. Harry told her everything he remembered about Dobby, and then confessed,

"Hermione, I don't know anything about house-elves—and neither do you, really. Perhaps, before you try to change the world, you would learn how _they_ feel about the matter."

He had no idea how she would accomplish this, of course, but it gave him the space to change the subject. Hermione must have known that that was what he was doing, but she spoke with him about her favourite class, Arithmancy, until Ron and Harry were both nearly bored to tears. He decided that he'd chosen his electives correctly. Although….

"What about Ancient Runes?" he asked, with a sidelong glance at Ron. He should know at least a _little_ about those, right?

Hermione could go on about anything scholastic for hours. This might, however, even to help her get some of it out of her system, if that were possible.

They were interrupted by the appearance of Malfoy, come to gloat; this year would be standard fare, which meant that Harry should start peeling his eyes for the coming threat _now_.

"I assume that you found your wand," Harry said, cocking his head to the side, and studying Malfoy. He hadn't drawn, but the Malfoys would never send their young scion off without that most important tool.

Malfoy scowled at him, as if he'd said something wrong. "It has been confiscated for evidence," he said, stiffly, and, with a sigh, Harry understood.

Of course, it couldn't have happened to a better person. Malfoy must have a new wand, yet again—he'd never grow attached to any of them, at this rate. If wandlore were correct, he'd never _bond_ with any of them. This pleased Harry rather, as it meant that Malfoy's path forward was on a steep incline. The only other person to whom that still applied, now, was Neville Longbottom. Harry would have to find a way to ensure that Neville pulled ahead of Malfoy in class. He'd consider it part of his revenge against Malfoy Senior, for what he'd done to Ginny.

Malfoy cast a dismissive glance around their compartment, taking in Ron's dress robes covering the cage of the unfortunately-named owl Pigwidgeon, Sirius's compensatory gift to Ron, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione themselves. Crabbe and Goyle seemed impatient to get back to their compartment, but Malfoy acted as if he had all the time in the world. He must be a horrible friend, and not just an annoying brat to those he hated. Of course, Goyle and Crabbe were mere lackeys…did Malfoy perhaps have no friends, only followers? Was that how Slytherin worked? Perhaps Harry belonged there, after all; he did come of a friendless background, after all, on either side of the equation.

"Look, Malfoy, just come to your point and leave us in peace, alright?" Harry asked, with a put-upon sigh. He missed the reprieve third year had offered.

"I suppose you're going to enter, aren't you?" Malfoy asked, staring at him intensely. "Anything to stay in the spotlight…I'm sure you'd love the fame and glory…."

"I wasn't planning on entering," he said, which was true, as he had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. But if it were something that would put him in the spotlight, he was sure he wasn't interested. Might be this year's threat, though…. "You might be seeking for a source of fame and prestige, but I have no need of them."

"Weasley's entering, then?" he asked, considering Ron, now. Harry was almost amused. Let no one doubt _Ron's_ worth. "I suppose his family could afford the prize money, and they'd hardly miss one of their sons. Of course, it's supposed to be safer this year, all sorts of new restrictions."

Harry was definitely not entering himself. This sounded more like the annual threat by the moment. He glanced at Ron, to try to ensure his silence,

"Ron isn't entering, either. Unlike yours, his parents value his life." He gave Malfoy his pleasantest smile, and Malfoy recoiled. He got a hold of himself far too quickly.

"I was speaking to Weasley, not you, Potter," he drawled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Or do your cronies not have thoughts of their own?"

At that, Harry had to laugh. It was rare that anything Malfoy said could be considered genuinely amusing, but then, he had, as usual, no idea what he was talking about. "You'd know all about cronies, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" he asked, once he'd caught his breath. "You betray your own ignorance. _I_ am not the leader of our group. If anyone is the leader, it's Ron. But it's beneath his dignity to answer a lowlife such as you are, yourself. That odious task falls to me. You must know that Ron is the most competent fighter out of all of us. Hermione is the smartest. It falls to me to be spokesman, and bodyguard."

For a moment, he almost wandered off into his memories, but he shook it off. "If you would take your _cronies_, and leave us be, I'm sure everyone would appreciate it—even they."

"Why, you—" Malfoy began, eyes narrowing almost to slits in his anger. Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy's typical behaviour.

"Get lost, Malfoy," said Hermione, getting to her feet. "I haven't forgotten what you said during the attack."

Oh, look. Hermione was developing common sense.

"Did you know that we're allowed to use magic on the train to Hogwarts? Do you want a demonstration of some of the jinxes I studied?"

Malfoy backed away, waving his arms. "I just dropped by to have a civil conversation with you lot. I should have known better. This isn't over, Potter!"

In other words, trying to cover his ego after it got kicked by an unexpected opponent.

"I should have slapped him, again," Hermione muttered to herself. No one contested.

* * *

For once, he didn't have to wait to learn what the latest threat was: it was something called the Triwizard Tournament. Quidditch was canceled for the year, which was just as well: Harry rather suspected that he'd need to spend most of his free time practising both forms of magic, to even survive to the end of the year. He had forgot neither prophecy. _The Dark Lord shall rise again… greater and more terrible than ever he was… And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…_

The words rang in his ears as he listened to Dumbledore's announcement. This, then, the news that Malfoy was not supposed to have, but had nevertheless owing to his father's position and influence (read: bribery). A Tournament, meant to "foster good will and understanding" amongst the three oldest, greatest wizarding schools in Europe, the very three Hermione had casually mentioned the night of the attack. A month from now, the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would arrive here at Hogwarts. The Champions would be chosen on Hallowe'en—which, all by itself, sent alarm bells ringing in his head. He made a mental note to corner Ron as soon as possible. The only thing he could do was start preparations as soon as possible.

He'd need to spend some time researching past Tournaments; if only he'd known _before_. If only he could have conferred with Mother about it, last night. And he could tell Sirius, but…. Sirius already knew that the Tournament was being held this year, doubtless. Mrs. Weasley had dropped plenty of hints about the special events happening at school this year. Everyone must have known, or everyone with any sort of connections, except for them.

His thoughts were interrupted when the double doors leading to outside burst open with a bang, and the Hall filled with the clank of wood on stone, as a stranger strode into the hall. The thunking was caused by his wooden leg colliding heavily with the floor. His mismatched eyes made even Harry uneasy. Apparently, he was their new Defence teacher. Harry was immediately inclined to be all the warier of him, given past experience. Of course, it was possible that the first two years had been anomalies, but….

So, this was the renowned Alastor Moody, Dumbledore's friend, one of the greatest aurors of the modern age. Aurors had a dangerous job, but, to Harry's understanding, they were the wizarding equivalent of police. For some reason, Harry could think of no better job to aim at. Even still, the appearance of Dumbledore's old friend was giving him second thoughts, for any of a number of reasons.

Pleasantries were exchanged between Moody and Dumbledore, which Harry ignored, introductions were given, which Harry barely heard, and then Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament, which caught and held Harry's interest. He rather thought he'd have to be more proactive this year—and not just by setting up his Foe-Glass as soon as possible, to try to scout out the incoming threats. He'd have to set to building up his magic reserves. The healing practice Mother set him to wouldn't cut it. He'd have to ask Ron for his assistance. Wasn't that how he'd built up his magic before? Sheer necessity that came of being the younger brother of the troubleseeker crown prince?

He glanced at Ron, trying to decide how long he could afford to wait, how receptive Ron would be to helping. But, who was he kidding? Anything for a fight, right? And Harry could help him to better understand magic, which he also needed…and then, too, this training would help both of them to survive Riddle's inevitable resurrection.

Tomorrow, then. For now, Harry settled for watching Moody with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Friend of Dumbledore's or not, any Defence teacher was guilty until proven innocent.

* * *

There was a certain decrease of tension throughout Gryffindor House that Harry only slowly realised came of a change in "management"—namely, that Percy had graduated last year (as had Oliver Wood, but he was only a terror to the quidditch team, and they'd won last year, anyway). Harry found that he didn't feel the need to keep watch as much as he had before, that he no longer ensured that a room was completely empty before talking about sensitive information. Having his fellow students otherwise occupied on the other side of the room was enough for him.

He was still quiet when he took Ron aside to make his request. It came in three parts, and two of them were secret—those required the Room of Requirement that he had learnt of from Sirius. On the one hand, he needed to go back over everything he and Thor had ever learnt of fighting, make it fresh in his memory—his duels with Riddle always seemed to return to such "muggle" forms of combat. He fully expected for Ron to have the upper hand in this field, but he himself knew that he had greater skill with magic, and if Thor had any sort of interest in learning the other sort of magic—and perhaps he now did—Harry could give him some guidance, at least. For the most part, however, he suspected he'd be practicing that magic, alone, in the Room of Requirement.

Wizarding magic, however, required much less secrecy. They might even drag Hermione into learning wizarding spells meant for defence and offence…and maybe occlumency. But for now…he'd stick with the most important, fundamental things.

He needed to build up his reserves. He need to practice fighting. It was inevitable, foretold…inexorable. Last year the anomaly, the only time, perhaps, that they would not have their annual clash. The words of Trelawney's prophecy loomed large over his head.

"I have a request to make of you, Brother," he said, keeping his voice low, despite his comparative lack of caution. He was sure to be looking elsewhere when Thor turned his way, doubtless at a loss—why, now that he knew the rules of invocation, would Harry call him that?

"Something troubles you," he said, and Harry frowned, wondering if he'd somehow become so transparent that even Thor could read him without fail. Or perhaps, again, it was merely another case of him underestimating him. Perhaps, he was too predictable.

"A favour. There is time you would spend at quidditch practice. I ask for something I know will not disappoint you. What I said to Malfoy is very true: you are the strongest of us. Neither Hermione nor I could hope to match you in strength. In other circumstances, this would not trouble me. But two prophecies loom before us, still, and Riddle has had over half a century to study wizarding magic—and I shall study this, too—but he knows nothing of the other—of _Asgardian_ magic." He couldn't resist checking again to ensure no one was listening. A surreptitious glance around the room confirmed that no one was nearby, and even the Twins were bent over a piece of parchment, arguing over its contents with Lee Jordan.

"More than that," he continued, turning to at last face Thor, "he does not have our training. But neither do I, when I have had no chance to practise—and no more have you. What would your father think? Mother once called you 'Asgard's quintessential youth'. Knowing you, part of your restlessness is just this—the lack of any ability to train, to prepare for combat, especially as you know it is coming. I think that it would be beneficial to both of us."

He did not want to admit that he could appreciate the challenge that came of battle, at the very least. Nor would he be bringing any weapons with him to the Room, save for his wand, of course (it would be quite the oversight to forget such, when danger was imminent, and war loomed on the horizon). He thought he was being quite open about his intentions, regardless.

Which did not stop Thor from trying to find ulterior motives. Harry sighed. He seemed to be doing much of that, of late.

"Meet me outside the Room of Requirement, tomorrow, after lunch. I think we have some spare time, then. Let us test the limits and uses of the Room of Requirement, shall we?"

Hogwarts had been built a millennium ago, by the four greatest witches and wizards of their time. They lived in a time of war, although it lay between the Norman Conquest and Viking raids (funny how the Norse kept showing up, wasn't it? Norman meaning what it meant, and the Vikings being who they were…he felt rather tangled up in the affairs of the time regardless of actual involvement). The Founders, it was agreed, were nominally Christian, but they would not have overlooked any potential defence for their school, as later generations would, on account of it being heresy, or sacrilege, or whatever name they would lay on it. They lived in a time before firearms, which meant that the muggle weapons they would have used were all different styles of familiar weapons from home. Regardless of whether the Room fabricated its materials _ex nihilo_ (doubtful), or called them from some otherspace, or elsewhere in the castle, it _could_ provide weapons.

He was confident about this argument. What remained was the limits of the Room to replicate or provide more obscure weapons. Well, they'd have to see.

-l-

See they did, as Harry had asked, in a free slot (with Hermione otherwise occupied with her favourite class). Harry only had a few days left before their first Defence class, next week. It was four days away, on the sixth of September. He was determined to have some measure of defence, if worse came to worst, against the new Defence Professor, by the time of his first class. If his motto was "CONSTANT VIGILANCE", Harry would follow that rather paranoid creed. If he weren't out to kill Harry, he might just be impressed, and Harry had his heart set on becoming an auror. Those were the best people to save the world—or even for those who strove for redemption to fix it in smaller ways.

The Room of Requirement did not disappoint. It was possible that it brought objects from even outside the castle, via some sort of spell like apparation, portkeys, and the World Opening spell. It was one of the single most impressive feats of magic he had ever seen, which was somewhat galling. The only other magical things that readily compared—that were actual works of magic—were those laid upon Thor's hammer, the World-Gates (whatever made them) and the ceiling of the Great Hall.

It did not escape his notice that two out of four of those—half—were here in Hogwarts. Of course, the Founders had worked together to create those two masterpieces. Out of respect for it, he decided against even trying to figure out how it worked by his usual recourse (opening his seventh sense, and studying the structure of the magic, itself). It deserved better.

He could tell, with his seventh sense partly open, that this space was full of what could only be described as _potential_. That was what the magic lent itself to, here. It was an ideal place for study, for learning is the process by which potential is converted into knowledge. Where it is realised, and given form. In short, the Room of Requirement was, among many other things, the ultimate classroom. If he wished to have Neville surpass Malfoy, Neville had best prepare to spend many long hours studying _here_. Not that he felt like sharing the Room, just yet.

For now, it more than fulfilled its function. The ability Sirius had shared, hiding the door, that none realise that the Room was in use, made it the most secure location to practise that he could think of. Then, too, there was the variable size indicated on the Map, enabling it to exceed its natural boundaries, occupying twice as much space as it was possible for it to occupy, given the floorplan of the rest of the seventh floor of Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement was ordinarily the size of a classroom, he thought he understood. Classrooms were not that big in Hogwarts. But it could expand to several times that size, as needed. The roof needed to be higher than it would ordinarily be possible at Hogwarts; the Room accommodated this. There was a certain impossibility to the structure of the Room, that might have given even him a headache to try to figure out.

"A wall of weapons," he said, instead, turning to the left-hand wall. "How clichéd."

"It is very convenient," said Thor, beaming, as if the two words were synonyms. …Come to think of it, _did_ he know the meaning of the word?

Harry shook his head, and stared at the wall, looking for something that would be about the same size and weight as the Sword of Gryffindor. This was more difficult than it sounded, because the Sword of Gryffindor was goblin-make, so who knew what it was made of, and what sort of spells were built into it? Some of these weapons might have the same problem, of course…there was no real way to know; even his seventh sense might let him down, with such a vast amount of data before it. Operating by sight alone was risky, but his best chance.

Ron seemed puzzled by his choice, but Harry shrugged. He was not about to admit that he'd use the first excuse he got to acquire permission from Dumbledore to use the Sword of Gryffindor, anymore than he was about to admit that the Sword was still in his possession, and therefore the go-to weapon, when he'd yet to figure out how that part of him serving as his final defence against Thanos (or at least, it had had that function years ago) had managed to make weapons out of _nothing_. That was another trick to ponder, when he had the time. What was school to him, next to the weight of the prophecy?

Priorities, priorities. Past experience told him that his life was liable to be in jeopardy several times this year. He was going to prioritise defending himself.

"Just pick something," he said, with a sigh.

Because he'd picked a sword, Thor did the same. That was Harry's explanation for why Thor _lost_. Although, of course, there were also the facts that he wasn't used, yet, to fighting as a mortal (semi-mortal?), and the fact that Harry had been the only one to fight for his life in the past three years. Still….

He remembered a time before, victory where he'd expected only defeat. Onlookers he'd persuaded that they had misread the situation. And he could believe it then; he could believe it now.

"I suppose I have had more practice than you," he said, thoughtful. "And this is not your weapon of choice, after all. It is hardly surprising, if you lose when you do not fight with your best."

Strange, what memories linger for some, and not others. Perhaps it was only that compression of memories, covering the span of half a year, that made him remember that _one_ at all. Thor had clearly forgotten it. Very well, he felt no need to remind him.

Just because it was a memory of better times did not make it worth dwelling upon.

"You're just a bit rusty, is all," he said, with a smile. It was not a mocking smile—he injected as much reassurance as he could into it. He held out a hand. "And you too little understand how to fight as a mortal. Do try to keep your own limitations in mind. Let this not be another New Mexico."

Thor glowered at the reminder. Harry paused, thoughts derailed. He had to ask the question.

"What became of Jane?" he asked, because if Thor were here, then he was not where she was. Why hadn't he thought of it before? That and…something about Hermione?

"Our differences were too great for us to overcome," Thor said. "Also, a year is much longer for humans. She believed that I had forgotten her, because I failed to… 'keep in touch'."

Harry sighed, because that was the most diplomatic response he could come up with. "You mean you didn't call her, or send her an e-mail, or anything."

He had no idea how he knew what e-mail was, but decided that thinking about that was probably not worth it.

Thor looked sheepish, and fidgeted, as if he had been caught doing something he should not be doing. "I should have visited more often," he mused. "But our worlds have very different technologies. I had little else in the way of recourse."

"You're supposed to at least remember to stay in touch. That's fundamental to _any_ sort of relationship," Harry said, leaning against the wall. He was unable to keep all of his exasperation from his voice.

"But we…split up, and decided to be friends. After you died, I was not as I was. I needed time to recover. I believe she may also have blamed herself for your death. These were issues that were too difficult to work through."

"…I see," said Harry. This somehow tied in with the memories he'd known all along were missing. He hated to be reminded of that gap, and therefore sought for a different topic of conversation, while they were both still trying to catch their breath. Ah, yes. Hermione.

"And what of Hermione?" he asked, turning to face Thor, who blinked, as if startled. Right.

"Hermione?" he repeated, and Harry sighed.

"Yes, Hermione Granger. Our mutual best friend, the smartest witch of our year, took every course on offer last year. Perhaps even smarter than Jane," he said, a finger at his chin as he considered the idea, and the paths it opened up. Hmm.

This merited further thought. He frowned. "She does seem to value your opinion… and she does seem to volunteer to go out of her way to spend time with you."

"And what of you and Ginny?" asked Thor, so abruptly that it couldn't have been clearer that he was trying to avoid that line of thought. _Hmm_.

"What _of_ me and Ginny?" asked Harry, in a deliberately bored voice that Sirius would have been proud of. "Last I checked she had just barely ceased from her anger following the attack at the World Cup. Or did she say something to you?"

There was a further tell to add to an already impressive list: Weasleys tended to turn red down to their ears when under pressure. It made it a bit too easy to tell what they were feeling. But Thor knew better than to even _try_ to lie to him. Not that he would succeed, even if Harry had been normal, and not possessed of a lie-detecting sense (a sixth sense).

Thor did not seem to appreciate that Harry was not as upset by his enquiries as Thor had been when the tables were turned. There is no satisfaction in turning tables when the recipient does not lament their plight. Harry very nearly took pity on him, but as he wasn't receiving any response….

"Shall we try again, then?" he asked, with a smile.

Thor might be more impulsive, but he fought harder when angry.


	82. Unforgivable

**Chapter Eighty-Two: Unforgivable**

That practice was absolutely necessary, both as an outlet, and for its intended uses of building up their reserves (strength, knowledge, and, in the second type, magic-based duels he insisted upon after that first session, magical power). But without those sessions, Harry would not have lasted as long as he did in their first Defence class. Which was saying something, as he still left early. He couldn't help it.

There was a bit of evidence gathered at the same time, from the lesson, to do with Neville. He'd reacted worse to the Cruciatus Curse than Harry had. That was saying something.

The Twins had spoken highly of this class, and Harry didn't understand _why_. Yes, of course, the famed auror Alastor Moody knew what he was talking about. But an actual demonstration, disregarding the backgrounds of his students, not even warning them of what was to come, both made complete sense, and seemed immensely cruel, which was not the same thing as "cool".

They filed in on that Tuesday, taking their seats without knowing how important their choice would be for that lesson. Every Defence teacher seemed radically different from all the others, anyway. Quirrell, who feigned incompetence, and taught a limited agenda, regardless; Lockhart, who genuinely was incompetent, but dangerous nonetheless, who had taught them nothing except that they should not believe everything they heard; Professor Lupin, well-versed in his area of focus. Moody would naturally know his stuff, but would he be a good teacher?

Harry's immediate reaction to learning about their lesson was to pity Ron, who was arachnophobic (although this struck him as more than slightly amusing; he had the vague memory of a red-headed woman whom he knew to be called 'Black Widow', and she was one of Thor's friends. That could complicate when he caught up to the future).

When he learnt that the subject of the class was something called "The Unforgivables", that caught and held his attention. He knew the name of only one, and that was from the Sorting Hat. And last year, he never _had_ come around to researching it…and then other events had sidetracked him. What little he remembered of that conversation increased his usual wary tension tenfold. Or at least fourfold.

"Who can name one of them?" asked Moody, after a brief introduction to the class, and the function those poor arachnids would serve. He explained why they were called the Unforgivable Curses: the use of any one of them on a human being was grounds for a life sentence in Azkaban. Harry rather expected Hermione to sniff at the anthropocentrism of this philosophy, but she was too busy soaking up the lesson, as only she could.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione's hand was the first in the air. Surprisingly, Neville's tentative one was second, some ways behind him. Both of them glanced at Harry, as if there were something he was supposed to have made of the question. As if they expected him to know one of the curses.

It was absurd, of course: they were not privy to the discussions the Sorting Hat had had with him. If it were going to reveal his deepest secrets, it would not have done to _Neville_, or anyone else in this classroom—with the possible exceptions of Moody and Ron.

He looked down at his desk, fist clenched tight. They'd taken seats in the front, which ordinarily is a good idea, if you want good grades (and Hermione was aware of this fact). But now both Ron and Harry were wishing that they had sat elsewhere. Only Hermione seemed happy with the arrangement, as she was wont to be, whenever she had the chance to show off.

"You, girl with the bushy hair," said the new professor, pointing at Hermione, who beamed as if he'd given her a compliment. Then, she looked down, seeming a bit uncomfortable, as if she'd just realised something.

"…_Avada Kedavra_," she whispered, and Harry's eyes widened in shock. He remembered it as if it were seared into his memory (well, it _was_): his mother, before she remembered, defending him from Riddle, begging him to kill her instead, have mercy. _Avada Kedavra_. Green light. Badness. An old dream, given a more potent reality, sharp, hard edges, like a blade. He swallowed, hard, and shuddered.

"Ah, yes," said Moody, with what might be confused for relish. "_Avada Kedavra_…the Killing Curse. The worst of the three, it causes instant death for the victim. And there's no counter to it, no defence possible. Only one person has been hit with it, and lived to tell the tale, and he's sitting right in front of me."

Harry decided to hate this professor, if for no other reason than that he, even as Lockhart had, had singled Harry out for special attention, as if he wanted it, as if he didn't get enough as it was. His nails dug into the wood of his desk. Ron glanced his way, but both of them knew that there was nothing that he could do.

Moody took out a jar of spiders, which was enough to distract Ron. Harry took no pleasure from that fact. He watched with feigned apathy belied by his unblinking stare. Moody set a spider on the table at the front of the room, which he'd decided to use for his demonstrations. Immediately, the spider scurried wildly for safety, but it was too slow.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" cried Moody, and there was a rush of wind, a beam of green light, and the spider lay there, motionless. Ron did not mind spiders dead; he automatically relaxed, even as Harry tensed, gripping the sides of his desk with greater force. That was it. It was that spell. He'd seen it now, used in front of him, now that he was old enough to understand its significance.

Hadn't this spell killed him, once? Was that why he'd become…what he'd become? Whatever that was? If he'd been hit with the Curse (to which there was no counter, no means of defence), had he not died, same as everyone else?

But Mother, and old magic, had dragged him back…him, and something else.

"Now, there's more to these spells than just knowing the wand movements and the words. That's part of the reason these curses are considered forbidden: you have to mean them. You could all point your wands at me right now and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed."

_Care to stake your life on that assumption_? asked the more dangerous part of Harry's mind. The part that knew things, but made bad suggestions. It had been easier when he'd called it "Loki"….

Moody was speaking, saying something about how they needed to pay attention to him when he was talking, and CONSTANT VIGILANCE. Harry's heart beat frantically, but his mind returned to the demonstration at hand.

Well, if Moody had started with the worst Curse, things could only improve from here, right?

And then he remembered the Curse whose name he already knew, the one the Sorting Hat had told him, the one that filled him with dread although he had never researched it, only on account of under what circumstances the Sorting Hat had mentioned it: the Imperius Curse.

"Anyone know any others?" asked Moody. Again, with greater hesitance, Neville's hand rose into the air. It was a half-hearted raising of the hand, if ever Harry had seen one. Doubtless, he did not want to see another one of those curses, performed live before him.

"Yes?" asked Moody, sparing him a glance with just his normal, non-electric-blue, non-creepy eye.

"The _Cruciatus Curse_, sir," said Neville, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hmm. Your name's Longbottom?" asked the auror, not looking at Neville, at least not with his normal eye. Neville nodded, pale and shaking, and looking as if he'd just volunteered for an impossible task.

He slumped a bit in evident relief when the professor asked no further questions, merely withdrawing a second jar, with a second spider. This one was not as smart as the previous one. Of course, it had barely been there for a second, when Moody muttered something about it needing to be a bit bigger, that they could the easier see the effects of his next spell.

Ron made to push his chair back, but Harry had already clamped his hand around his arm with the solid firmness of a manacle. He sent him a look. "_Show no weakness_," he said, in a voice too low for Moody to hear. Ron glanced at him, almost pleading, and then looked down, fists clenched in his lap. He'd seen worse.

"_Crucio_!" cried Moody, pointing at the spider, and Harry stared as the familiar light hit the spider, that started twitching, legs shaking with what Harry knew was unbearable pain.

Oh. Well, this was going to be a wonderfully fun lesson. He was already well-acquainted with the subject material. He wouldn't need to study this. But…_he'd_ blocked the Cruciatus Curse. One of the Unforgivable Curses, which couldn't be defended against, couldn't be blocked.

Hmm.

Neville disturbed the class by pushing himself out of his seat, and backing towards the door. He looked much as Harry felt: white, pale, shaking so badly that his legs could barely support him, as if _he'd_ gone under the Curse. Harry knew that it came with the occasional muscle spasm.

With a start, glancing back and forth between Moody and Neville, it occurred to him that maybe Moody had known whatever backstory piece of information caused Neville to react thus. Maybe he'd guessed that this would be his reaction. What was his aim? Desensitisation? Or did he get a kick out of it…like Snape?

"You've made your point! Cancel the spell," Hermione begged, and Moody shook his head, as if he'd spaced out for a moment. He broke line of sight, and the spider went limp. It was not moving, yet neither was it dead. Harry knew the feeling, knew how it felt just to need a reprieve, but that reprieve would never be given in battle.

He had been hit with that curse only once, and it had burst his last defences, crashed into his every barrier and protection with the force of a wave against the shore. That curse was what had caused him to use the mantra for the first time. It was responsible for everything that had happened ever after, had just as formative a role in Harry's life as the Killing Curse.

He stared at the spider, as Moody reduced it to its original size, and swept it back into its jar. Somehow, Harry doubted that it would be compensated for its recent torture.

"Well, someone's been silent, considering I was told that he was one of the brightest students in the class—the only one to get full marks on the final last term. Why so quiet, Harry Potter?"

It felt too like the exchange of verbal blows that attended a duel. It was tempting to respond in kind. He glanced at Ron, who had gone pale, but was it in response to the recent pains of Moody's victim, or what was now to come?

"Why would I know any of the Unforgivable Curses?" Harry asked, with almost successful feigned indifference.

"You don't have to be interested in Dark Magic to have heard of it," Moody said. "I am sure that you came across it in your studies—"

Harry decided that it would be too suspicious if he kept arguing: Moody would eventually make him admit to knowing the name of the third curse, or he might slip up in some other context. If he kept insisting he knew nothing…. "I'd never heard the names of the Killing Curse, or the Cruciatus before, although they've been used on me. But I think the Sorting Hat mentioned one to me last year, when it was talking about the uses of occlumency. I think it said it was called the 'Imperius Curse'."

He did not dare to glance at Ron, to see his response. There was too much importance to the moment. He didn't know what the Imperius Curse was, or what it did, but he could guess, just by its name, and by the context in which the Sorting Hat had mentioned it. He wished that he'd known more than just that one curse, could have volunteered the name of, say, the Killing Curse. That one seemed the most innocuous—it had done him less harm than the Cruciatus, which had _broken_ him, and as for the Imperius Curse….

"Ah, yes. Caused quite a lot of trouble in the wake of the last war. Plenty of Death Eaters couldn't be brought to trial…convinced everyone they'd been under the Imperius and got a free pass."

That this fact clearly ate at him all these years later was nether here nor there. Harry was compiling a list of reasons to hate Moody, regardless of whether or not he turned out to be trustworthy.

"The Imperius Curse…the mind-control curse." Harry's heart plummeted to his stomach. Like a hare running for cover, he doubted very much that it would return again until all was safe. He didn't want to know how he looked, but it must have been bad, for Ron—Thor—turned to him, and said, in his quietest voice: "_Show no weakness. Give no ground_."

"_Imperio_!" Moody cried, and the scuttling spider suddenly relaxed, as if the eyes of the class weren't on it, as if unaware of any potential threats, as if it were safe and secure, doing whatever a spider might do in its spare time. It reared up on four legs and began what was unmistakably a tapdance. Some laughed. Harry clenched his fists so tight he knew they were drawing blood, and very much didn't care.

He didn't mean that.

Did he?

He shook his head, staring at the spider with mounting horror.

"Think it's funny, do you?" asked Moody. The laughter, which had spread from one person to the next, died down at the rebuke. "Total control. I could make it drown itself, jump out a window, throw itself down one of your throats."

Harry shivered, and couldn't help glancing at Ron. For the first time in a long time, he felt a desire for some older relative to protect him from the world. Or maybe just _this_. Hadn't he wanted Thor to save him, back when—?

_Show no weakness. Give no ground. Hold the line. Success is salvation. Death is victory. Sacrifice is worth. Hold the line._

_There is an end. You must wait for it, is all. You can outwait anyone_.

But he hadn't. He didn't know if those were echoes, memories, or his inner voice giving him advice (and if it did, wasn't it always the worst advice? No?).

_Show no weakness_.

He watched the spider, feeling a sudden kinship with it.

_I've got red in my ledger. I mean to wipe it out._

He stood. He wasn't consciously aware of having done so, but he was in a hundred different times and places, a hundred pieces, each piece in a different place, and a different time.

Why wasn't the spell blue?

He stumbled over the chairs, backing out of the room, as if Moody would try to cast the spell on _him_ if he dared turn his back. As it turned out, that was next week's lesson. For now, he turned and fled.

* * *

"If they're called Unforgivables, how are you getting away with casting that one on us?" Harry demanded. A murmur ran through the class. Unfortunately for him, rumour had spread through Gryffindor Tower of his odd behaviour last class. It was only a matter of time before it spread through the school. He blamed Moody. It was easier than blaming himself.

"The Ministry thinks highly of Dumbledore. Dumbledore gave me permission. The Ministry think you're too young to understand, but Dumbledore agrees that you've got to know what's out there waiting for you. You've got to be prepared. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Most of the class jumped. Somehow, Harry and Ron didn't.

Harry had half a mind to volunteer to go first. Instead, he watched everyone else. Moody probably wouldn't have let him get it over with, anyway, and he learnt something, somewhat, by watching others undergoing the process.

He frowned, and opened his seventh sense. It went against his better judgement to do that when the sheer influx of information was liable to overwhelm him, causing him to miss whatever instruction Moody might give, but let's face it: he wasn't going to help them figure out how to fight off the Imperius Curse—the whole point of this exercise for everyone else was so that they would know how it felt. Only for Harry was it an attempt to find an exploitable weakness to the spell.

All he was missing was whatever sick show Moody was putting on at their expense. Was he a sadist or something? First, calling attention to Harry as the sole survivor of the Killing Curse; then, dragging out the Cruciatus until Neville was shaky and jumpy for hours afterwards; and now _this_. Dumbledore sure knew how to pick them, didn't he?

_This_ was Dumbledore's friend?

Harry shook his head, studying the sturdy twine of which the spell seemed to be made for any sign of weakness. His seventh sense was far from infallible—it hadn't found Riddle's soul in the diary in second year, after all, and he still had trouble interpreting what he found, sometimes. It was a messy tangle of emotion and movement at the best of times (i.e., when he wasn't a mess trying to find an escape from the noose tightening around his neck). And it was almost impossible to multitask…all the data coming in from his seventh sense concerning everything within his range of awareness was enough to cause sensory overload in itself, if you weren't used to it, without adding data from the five primary senses. He could sometimes get away with using his sixth and seventh senses at the same time…the sixth sense rarely contributed much in the form of data, but it _was_ good at intuition….

He sighed, and opened his sixth sense. Might as well. He needed all the help he could get.

The only thing he could think of—and it would rarely work; it would require plenty of forewarning—was to expand an occlumency shield around himself to intercept the twine before it could reach him.

And then, came Ron's turn.

In retrospect, he should have expected Ron—Thor—to be the odd one out, the only one with a default measure of defence against the inexorable. The twine tried to reach him, but as it approached, it glowed white hot, and began to burn. Harry stared in what he refused to admit was awe; that was quite the spectacle to behold. Ron didn't even seem to realise that he was doing anything.

Moody cast the spell, again and again, frowning at his lack of success.

"Well, er," he began, faltering. "I suppose you have some sort of natural immunity…like nothing I've ever seen before."

He moved on. Harry thought fast. He knew he was running out of leeway.

Of course. Twine was such a sturdy material…but it was made of plant fibres. The spell wasn't, but now he knew that it could burn. And Mother's love was silver fire. It was a stopgap measure, if nothing else.

_What do you think, Mother? Should I try?_

Although he knew that she couldn't answer him, located too deep in his soul as she was, he still asked. To do otherwise would be rude.

He knew that he couldn't summon the armour, but Mother's love was the ultimate protection—the armour was just the form it usually took. Unfortunately, it was entirely out of his control. All he could do was hope for the best, and give Mother some forewarning about the impending threat.

_**Do**__ you suppose that you have the ability to block the Imperius Curse, as you did the Killing one?_

He'd never made any sort of concerted effort to contact Mother whilst in the Waking World—the last threat requiring her intervention, if you didn't count the dementors, which were equal risk for both of them, had been at the end of second year. He'd still been in denial, then.

Now, he kept his seventh sense open—to see how it would react. Was there mind-reading involved in the Imperius Curse? It forged some sort of connection between the mind of caster and victim, but couldn't override the Fidelius Charm.

Suddenly, it seemed _imperative_ that he not allow any sort of connection to form between him and Moody. Mother reacted to his distress. He could feel it in a flickering, burgeoning ache in his arms.

_It is only Moody, testing the class by using an Unforgivable on them. The one thought to be the most harmless. Ha! There is no need for the armour here. That would only rouse suspicion. Please, Mother._

Why couldn't he have been forewarned before school even began that he'd be encountering this? A week was not enough time to prepare, but Moody had given them _no_ forewarning. Even someone who was hit by such a curse in real life would have had the _opportunity_ of studying it, surely. Their research might have been filled with dead ends, as were the hours Harry had spent this last week, scouring the library, but they would have had years to research.

Moody called him up, and he braced himself. His skin burnt all over, a fierce stinging, the sort common with a new burn, before it settles into its usual rhythms. It was painful, but he could work through pain.

He could.

He was not as sure that he could work through mind-control.

He refused to meet anyone's eyes as he trudged to the front of the room like a man on the way to the gallows. If there were someone who wove the fates of men and gods, they were laughing at him. How many such turnabouts could this life hold?

His need to see the details of how the spell functioned was dwarfed by his need to know exactly what Moody was doing. He needed to hear him. He needed to be able to see where he was walking. If it were possible to die of sensory overload, he would have done, second year. Instead, it had given him a raging headache. At least his focus was narrower this time. He didn't need to see the entire room; he only needed to see Moody. He didn't need to hear his classmates' reactions; he only needed to know what Moody was saying.

"Ready now?" Moody asked. The only appropriate answer to that was "no". Harry said nothing. "Alright, then: _Imperio_!"

He was so fast! Of course, that was to be expected from an auror, but _still_. There was barely enough time to even _think_ of defending himself before he felt the world begin to fade away. He was filled with a warm, peaceful sort of laziness. Happiness such as he'd never known, or could not remember if he had, flooded him.

_Mother?_ he managed to ask.

_Jump onto the desk_, a voice commanded. He didn't recognise that voice, but he didn't like the sound of it.

_Why_? he asked. Suspicion tried to form beneath the pleasant dream.

_Such comfort is not for you_, said his sixth sense, or whatever it was that he had left as the final barricade to—

Ah. Yes, he needed to fight this off, before certain foreign presences could take advantage of his momentary lapse, the breach in his defences. There were two of them—now three—against him, and Mother. He did not like those odds, but weren't they familiar? He'd fought worse. He'd _bested_ worse.

_Fight back_, suggested the final barrier. It was too busy warding off Thanos to try something more direct. But something burnt beneath his skin, in those moments stretched into minutes. His seventh sense might as well be closed, for all the good it was doing him. The world was far distant. He needed to get back out. How did you wake yourself from a dream? How had he returned from the mist of his soul after the dementor attack, to the real world? How did he get back? He'd never gone into his own mind before. Except….

Desperation. Fear. Guilt. Loss. Pain. He needed his brother to call him out, and he wasn't there.

He was there. _Love is your guiding force_, said the memory of the Sorting Hat.

The third second stretched out, and then Mother's love flared bright, for a moment, igniting that sturdy twine, burning it down the line, burning the connection bridging their minds. He _felt_ it break.

Everything came rushing back. He was on his knees.

"_You_," he said, in a voice rusty from disuse, or from screaming. Ron—Thor—tensed behind him, as if he knew that Harry had been pushed too far, had gone too far. Harry had known that he should have left when Moody had told him to. He also knew that he had to learn if he had any means at all by which to fight the Curse. What did he get from it? Now, his mind was as jumbled as his soul had been, last year…or it felt that way. Perhaps the dust would settle into familiar patterns. But it would never do to just hope that.

He had to climb over a few desks to get there so quickly, but Ron was there a handful of seconds later. He hit Harry, hard, over the head, as Moody and the rest of the class watched. Harry swayed on his feet. His thoughts realigned themselves. He shook his head, to drive out his worst impulses.

"Try it again," he demanded. Ron stared at him in evident horror, but Harry knew that he needed a defence against this spell if he needed one against any.

Moody raised his wand again. Harry was aware of it, this time, aware of the process, aware of the buildup of energy, via his mostly closed seventh sense.

"_Imperio_!" cried Moody. He was far too eager.

A wall of occlumency fortified with silver fire—fake silver fire, the other magic, sprang up. It let the spell through only far enough to cut the twine, and then it burnt the line leading back to Moody. Other things could be done with that twine, he was sure. He just had no idea what. He stared at it, from his vantage within his own mind. It was limp and innocuous-looking. He'd find a way to take it apart, discover all of its weaknesses, what the optimal defence was.

He left his own mind, returning to the outside world, and Ron hit him again, without even having to be asked.

His head couldn't handle the additional trauma. He lost consciousness, which, to be fair, gave him the perfect opportunity to study the spell further, and with an excuse.


	83. Time Started It

**Chapter Eighty-Three: Time Started It**

Of course, his little misadventure of Moody's class was the talk of the school by the end of the day, but it took Malfoy a bit more time than just that to figure out how to insult him about it. In the meantime, he pretended not to hear the whispers and occasional jeers. A few people asked him whether or not he was crazy, which was something he ought to figure out the answer to. The answer, according to most standard legal definitions, which were the only relevant ones, was probably "yes".

He ignored them, to check in on Ginny. He hadn't forgot what Ron had said last week. Fancy bringing Ginny into things out of nowhere, when she wasn't even around to defend herself! If he were going to talk to her, he'd best do it now, before the rumours spread throughout Gryffindor House. This must be the gossips' house.

"Hello, Ginny," he said, sitting down beside her. He affected not to notice the way she flinched at the sudden noise. "What are you working on?"

He peered down at the symbols covering the page. It was a simple translation exercise. "Do you want any help?"

He smiled at her, and she shook her head so that her hair whipped her face. "_Harry_? Why are you talking to me?"

He pouted. "Well, I do seem to recall you saying something earlier about me ignoring you all last year. I thought I'd show my commitment to changing that by dropping in, right now. Do you want my help, or not?"

She glared at him. "You didn't take Ancient Runes, Harry. I doubt you'd be much help."

He gave a wave of his hands. "You'd be surprised what I know, Ginny. I've been doing independent study. But, fine. This isn't the sort of thing you should ask for help on, anyway. That's very smart of you. You might try saying the names of them aloud as you write them. And don't keep looking at the textbook. You're trying to commit these to memory, not copy them."

Her glare intensified. He pretended not to see it.

"So, you're taking Ancient Runes, and what else?" he asked, watching as her shoulders slumped and she resumed inking in symbols.

"Care of Magical Creatures," she snapped. He beamed at her, but she didn't notice, too busy studying. "I thought I'd take one thought-intensive course, and one hands-on one, to balance things out. Besides, a class like Care of Magical Creatures is always useful. Just about any job would touch on the subject. I didn't choose my courses just for an easy workload, as you and Ron did."

Harry scowled, and folded his arms. "I think you'll find that Ron and I didn't choose our courses for the light courseload, either. Care of Magical Creatures is the only course on offer practical enough to have a light courseload. Is it so difficult to believe that Ron and I chose Divination on account of a genuine curiosity about the subject? Hermione and McGonagall dismiss it, true, but they're both rather inflexible in their beliefs, and they both seem less able to handle illogical, chaotic concepts. Divination is one of those. The course is an endless array of different ways of looking at the world, systems of belief and thoughts that have shaped cultures throughout millennia. In its own way, it has the potential to be like Ancient Runes."

Ginny looked up from her homework, staring at him, open-mouthed. She shut her mouth and looked down at her paper again by the time his mini-speech ended.

"I see," she said, in a rather small voice. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Harry said, leaning back in his seat. He hadn't realised that he'd leant forwards, or unfolded his arms, for the confrontation. He wondered if he'd frightened her. He hoped not. "I should just let you study. I've homework of my own to work on. I just thought I'd check in on you."

"You…you could work here, too," she said, face turning very red as she shifted her papers aside to make room for him. He stared.

"Well, I suppose, if you don't mind…."

* * *

The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were set to arrive the first week of October. The professors seemed to realise that their arrival would result in widespread distraction, and were trying to cram as much of the syllabus as they could into the first month. Everyone seemed a bit dazed and unsure of how to react to the onslaught, except for the fifth and seventh years, who had fully expected to be inundated regardless, and whose workloads were exactly as heavy as they had been for fifth years and seventh years for generations.

It was a very good thing that Harry and Thor only had two electives, and that they had free blocks in which to recover. It was triply so, as it turned out, for reasons that neither had known to expect when choosing their third-year courses at the end of second.

Thor was heading in the vague direction of the library, following Harry, when he heard a voice from a classroom that he would later learn was supposed to be shut and locked for the day. Hogwarts was full of abandoned classrooms, and ones that were usually empty, but had one or two classes held there. The original Hogwarts must have offered a great deal more courses, and had a great deal more professors. Now, they served as ideal locations for ambushes, trysts, practice, and tutoring.

This probably fell into the first category, although it might have also been fit into some fifth category for things that didn't belong to standard usage.

"Psst! Thor!" said a quiet voice from behind the open door. "In here!"

This was immediately suspicious. Harry would not have gone: he would have assumed that it was a trap, and if he reacted at all, it would have been to countertrap whoever had dared to attempt such a thing. But Harry was paranoid. For his part, Thor knew that everyone at this school—scratch that, everyone in the universe—bar Harry and the Sorting Hat, knew him only as Ronald Weasley, sixth child, youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley. That _anyone_ should be calling his real name, particularly in the halls of Hogwarts, when he knew where Harry was, and he was not there, warranted investigation.

He glanced at Harry, and then glanced at the open door. Loki would have chastised him for impulsivity, but….

He approached the open door, peering inside. It seemed unoccupied, at first glance. It seemed unoccupied, until he entered the room, and someone behind the door shut it, behind him.

"Where is your brother?" asked the man, as Thor stared at him, with a puzzled frown. He looked slightly familiar, as if they'd met once before, but he wore clothes that were strange by any Midgardian standards—muggle or wizard. Those were not wizarding robes. "Robes" was probably the wrong word for them. But they clearly tied shut in the front, so that was the best you could do. They were dark, and that helped him not to stand out as much, which was probably the only reason he'd managed to make it this far into Hogwarts.

He had dark hair turning grey, which struck Thor as…off. When he'd seen this man before, he'd seemed much younger. That seemed to rule out them having met in the future.

Then, the question caught up to him. That question, added to the way he had himself been addressed, could mean only one person.

"He went ahead," Thor said, giving the simplest answer, until he could place this man. "Remind me of who you are."

The man shook his head, with a smile. "Right, right. It's been over twenty years. Can't expect you to recognise me. It's Stephen. I was the doctor who treated him at the end of…first year, did he say it was? So, you know I'm not here to hurt him. Haven't you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?"

That term did sound somewhat familiar. Harry was paranoid enough for both of them. He'd at least bring Harry here to speak with the doctor. Doctor… _Strange_ had saved his life, before, and two against one were always good odds.

"I will bring him," he promised, heading to the door, and turning back to look at Stephen.

"I'm not going to wander about your crazy magic school," said Stephen. "I'll wait right here."

Harry was, in whatever way he managed to do that, right outside the door, about to open it.

"You fell behind," he said, cocking his head.

"There is someone who wishes to speak with us. He is the doctor who saved your life at the end of first year."

"The one I tried to kill," Harry mused. "I remember."

Thor frowned, but the statement was irrefutable. Knowing Harry, he was probably already headed towards some rather paranoid thoughts. But Thor, unsure of what he could do to make anything better, merely stepped aside, and let Harry pass into the abandoned classroom. He wasn't expecting the doctor to smile at the two of them.

Very few people were _genuinely_ glad to see Harry; for most of them, he was a tool, at best. More often, he was something to be guarded—guarded against, perhaps, or protected, but a means to an end. He didn't know what to make of the idea that someone whom he'd tried to kill seemed genuinely pleased to see him, except that it was a ruse. He was instantly wary.

"You don't need to look that way," the doctor said, his smile fading. "I'm here to help. I'd have come earlier, but you—" he pointed at Harry, "told me that I should have come at the beginning of fourth year, instead of the middle of third. Is this about the right timeframe?"

Harry was too overcome by the absurdity of that statement to respond, so Thor said, "This is the second week of fourth year."

Harry frowned. Before he could gather his wits, Stephen continued,

"Good. You said this was a very exciting year—"

"'Said'?" Harry snapped. "Said _when_? We've never even met, yet you tell me that _I_ sent you?"

Stephen turned very serious at this. "Yes. _You_ sent me here, Loki. Twenty-odd years in the future. I'm here to help you. Not just with Voldemort. With Thanos, too."

The Rules of Invocation suggested that things were about to turn very ugly. Particularly when _Harry_ tended to flinch at the mere mention of Thanos. That would ratchet up his suspicion.

"'Twenty years hence'?" he repeated, his voice very soft, and brimming with malice. "Do you claim to have traveled back in time to speak with us?"

Even as he spoke, he gathered energy for an attack. Thor readied himself to intervene.

"I'm here to help," Stephen repeated, in his most serious voice. "And yes, I traveled back in time to do this. Man, when you told me you were super-paranoid at this point in time, I thought you were exaggerating."

As he spoke, he waved his hands in a complex series of gestures. A yellow-orange net of energy formed, glowing, around his hands. It took the brunt of a direct hit from Loki's spell, and the doctor staggered back.

"Good thing you helped me figure out how to block the spells you were liable to use. I thought all that practice was overkill. But you were absolutely right. It was necessary."

Loki paused, probably trying to figure out how to change his angle of attack. Thor breathed easier knowing that Stephen had _some_ means of defending himself.

"How do you know of Thanos?" Loki asked. Stephen sighed.

"Because you told me. You and Thor—and Hermione, and Ginny."

He shot a significant glance at Ron when he said Hermione's name. Ron missed it, but some of the tension drained from his brother. Some of the suspicion. Thor said that this was the doctor who had saved his life…and he did seem to know how to counteract a basic offensive spell fortified with the _other_ kind of magic….

Wait a minute. Had he said something about Ginny?

"These are dangerous times," he said, which was as close as he would come to apologising. Nothing the doctor had said rang false. He should give him a chance.

The doctor's eyebrows rose.

"You claim to know me. But I know nothing of you," he said. "As a gesture of faith, what are you, and…_what_ manner of magic do you practice?"

Stephen blinked, and glanced at Thor, shaking his head. "I don't believe it. Those are the _exact_ same words."

Thor shifted on his feet, and began fiddling with the unicorn-hair wand.

"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," he said, enunciating each word with great force. "That tends to lead to much confusion. I'm a sorcerer."

Loki blinked, and tilted his head. "…A sorcerer. I don't believe I've heard of them."

"We guard Earth against interdimensional threats," he said, leveling a significant look at Loki.

Twenty years hence. Ah.

"I saw the footage of the Chitauri Invasion on TV, before I got involved in this whole mess. It was before I knew I was a sorcerer. It's 2017, now. I missed out on the hubbub about signing the Sokovia Accords, so I don't know how I would have reacted before, but, speaking as someone who is now technically doing something illegal to save the world, I think they're a stupid idea."

Loki glanced at Thor, saw that he didn't understand either, turned back to Stephen.

"The Sokovia Accords were an agreement signed by some of the Avengers that they wouldn't act without U.N. approval after they, you know, dropped a country."

"Ah," said Thor, as if _that_ meant something to him, at least. "Then, it is because of Tony's army of killer robots—"

"_What_?" asked Loki. That last statement shouldn't even have any semantic value in the real world. "An army of killer robots? When were you going to mention that?"

He hoped he sounded as dazed as he felt.

Thor looked sheepish.

"You dropped a _country_?" Loki continued. All he'd done was destroy New York…and perhaps a few other places, it wasn't quite clear. And try to take over the world.

This conversation needed to get back on track before break ended, but….

"If you are yet another time traveler," he said, resigned to the idea of a _third_ form of time travel being introduced, "how many times have we met?"

Stephen shook his head. "I should have known that you'd ask that. You _always_ ask that. Just how do you expect to keep track? But it's the second time for you and Thor, and the fourth time for me, if you count the incident in the hospital, and the third, if you don't."

That wasn't too bad. He relaxed slightly.

"The fourth time, then. But if you come from the future, then you know that we survived the war."

Stephen frowned, and paused. Loki noticed his hesitation. "What? Am I wrong?"

"Well…yes. This isn't like wizarding time travel, where everything that happened always happened. It's possible that I shouldn't be able to do this at all, but I researched time travel extensively in the library of Kamar-Taj, and I think I've got it more or less figured out. I'm here not just to help you, but to get in as much practice with time travel as I can. Practice is important. You've made it quite clear that we're screwed probably even if we master as many skills as we can. I'm going to practice as much as I can, before it's too late."

Dread stole through the room, painting the walls with frost.

"All we know is that, in the timeline I came from, you survived the war. You, and Ron, and Hermione, and Ginny, at the very least. But that's already changed: I never appeared during your third year. I've already changed the timeline. But I'll be able to keep coming back in time to help you, and keep changing the timeline, unless you die, or Hermione dies, or it otherwise becomes impossible to restore my memories, eight years from now. It's in my best interest to keep you alive, too. I don't want to break time any more than I already have."

Right. So, maybe now they hadn't survived the war. He couldn't know—

"But, on the plus side, I can bring information, and maybe even items, from the future to help you. Just as long as you make sure to ensure those objects' existence in the future. I can be useful. And I'll check in on you…try to make it the same time every week…."

"And you know Thor and me in the future. And Hermione," he said, with a knowing smile and a glance in Ron's direction, that leveled out, as he said, "and Ginny. What of Sirius? And Remus?"

He'd been planning on dragging those two into the war against Thanos. He didn't like that they hadn't been mentioned.

Stephen _hmm_ed. "I think you mentioned them, once or twice. Sirius…let's see…he died at the end of your fifth year. And Remus died at the end of your seventh."

He froze, as the familiar pain of loss—grief, turned his body to lead. He stared up at Stephen through his bangs. His head was too heavy to lift. Perhaps there was a bit more of Harry Potter to him than he would otherwise have assumed.

"…'_Dead_'," he whispered, as if pronouncing a death sentence. "After only two years…no. I refuse to accept this."

"We can change it," Stephen said, his tone almost eager. "That's what I'm here for. As long as you remember what happened, you can warn me about it. Sure, I'll need you to be a bit forthcoming with what actually happened, but we can _save_ them. There might be some people we can't save, but as long as I keep coming back and forth between times, we can make the best future possible."

"Do you understand your own offer?" Loki asked, voice rather raw, even though he kept it quiet. "Omniscience—knowledge of the future. There are those who have argued it is indistinguishable from omnipotence. Would you trust me with such power?"

Stephen looked him dead in the eyes. "Do you know what I think? I think you're a good person, more or less, who just lost his way."

Loki cracked a humourless grin. "'More or less'. I suppose I deserve that."

Thor's hand landed on his shoulder. He'd done little to interfere, hadn't even defended Stephen, as if he somehow recognised the importance of having Loki build this bridge on his own. And he supposed he _had_ built it. There was something new here—a new alliance. But Stephen…he could not have made it clearer that, like Thor, when he looked at Loki, he did not see a monster. And he was the only other in this time who knew of the Invasion…who'd seen what he'd done. How could he have such…faith?

"And we don't have to talk about the dire threats looming in the future all the time," Stephen continued. "Everyone agrees that I'm something of a magic prodigy. And you are, too. I'm sure we could learn a lot from one another's magic. For instance, I was only able to find you two by opening my seventh sense. But you only gave me the crash course in that."

Loki stared at him. _Talk_ with someone. About _magic_, the _other_ kind of magic. Someone who was _not_ Mother. There was probably some reasonable response he should have to that, but he didn't know what it was.

"Yes," he said at last. "We could."

Call it a peace offering. "I should not have attacked you. I apologise."

Thor stared at him, as if he'd grown extra appendages. What he was saying wasn't _that_ out of character, was it?

"This is the oddest thing that's happened yet this year," Loki muttered, relaxing slightly with the knowledge that he was not under immediate threat.

"Not _odd_," Thor said. "_Strange_."

Loki turned to stare at him. "…Was that a joke, Thor? Since when do _you_ have sense of humour?"

Thor pouted. "I've always had a sense of humour, Brother," he protested. "You just never noticed."


	84. This Is Not the Olympics

**Chapter Eighty-Four: This Is Not the Olympics**

Stephen was twenty-five hours early on the next week, appearing when Harry had been on his way to the Owlery for his weekly check on Hedwig, and into a thankfully empty corridor. He made up for it by arriving twenty-three hours late on the one after that. The first meeting proved what he had said before—Stephen now didn't even remember mentioning that he'd previously mentioned showing up during third year. He told them that this was the fifth time they'd met, when Loki asked, but insisted that he'd always shown up in the beginning of fourth year—to the extent of his knowledge.

It was on his third visit—their sixth meeting, by Stephen's count, that Loki, determined to keep Stephen from revealing himself by accidentally appearing during the middle of a class, or something, confronted him about how he had come to be in Hogwarts to begin with. This led to a brief discussion on the nature of Sling-Rings, which were very interesting, rather alarming devices. Apparently only highly moral people became sorcerers. Or, perhaps, this explained every unsolved crime where the perpetrator seemed to have vanished into thin air.

From here, Loki came up with a makeshift solution. Regardless of whether or not Stephen eventually mastered time travel, arriving at just the right time (quite literally), it would not do for him to keep appearing in the castle.

"The Gryffindor Common Room is always empty at about this time," he announced. "If you appear there when it is empty, you will better be able to wait for us unnoticed if you arrive early or late. But you will need to acquaint yourself with the Common Room, first. I will show you a wizarding spell that should be useful for this purpose: _similis videor_!"

Stephen had no time to react before the wand hit him on the head, and a creeping coldness spread from the point of impact.

"The Disillusionment Charm?" asked Thor, at a loss. "Would true invisibility not be better?"

Loki narrowed his eyes in what was almost a glare. Stephen was not trustworthy enough to know about the invisibility cloak, or the Map, yet, even if they were going to show him the Gryffindor dorms.

"No," he said, but didn't explain. He turned to Stephen. "This is a spell you should be able to replicate, providing that you paid any attention to how it works."

"It causes light to bend around an object, for the most part, but it leaves a distortion in the air, as if the spell is incomplete."

He was not going to press them for a more complete spell. Stephen didn't ask any questions about any of this, instead following them in silence through the halls of Hogwarts, jumping at every noise and hoping that people just overlooked Stephen. At last, they arrived at the portrait hole. Its guardian had never revealed them before, but allowing a strange man access to the dorms might be the exception to the rule.

"Will you let us through?" he asked, acting as if Stephen weren't even there. He'd had Stephen lag behind, to ensure that the fat Lady didn't see him. She sighed, and swung the door outwards. The door, once opened, remained in that position until it was closed. She'd complained about people leaving it open before,

Now was the most opportune moment for Stephen to enter the mostly-deserted Common Room, unnoticed. Loki had to turn back to find him, and lead him back to the open door.

"There is no need for you to acquaint yourself with the guardian of this door," he said, eyes narrowed, once they were all three safely back inside the Common Room.

"_This_ is your dorm?" asked Stephen, who clearly wasn't listening. "I know this is a castle, but _most_ of the people here aren't actual royalty of any kind. Why—"

"You will never convince Malfoy of that fact," said Loki. "And the Tower is not as lavish or opulent as befits royalty. These furnishings have been here for a thousand years, since the school was founded."

"They've kept well," Stephen said, clearly at a loss as to what else could possibly be said in response. "Why is everything in Ironman's colours?"

Loki scowled. "Very well, then, a summary of the houses. As you are not to meet Hermione or Ginny yet, Thor will need to summarise them for you,"

"_I_?" repeated Thor, taken aback by suddenly being drawn into their conversation. His brother had already wandered off, however, and could not hear him.

* * *

He couldn't remember ever having had quite as much to speak with Mother about in the cottage, before, unless it was back when he'd had those nightly dreams (memories) of the past. He wasn't even sure where to begin. This year was certainly complicated, wasn't it?

Mother had a tendency to appear, as if out of nowhere, no matter where in the house he was wandering. He did not quite dare to go to the basement, suspecting, as he did, that it was somehow connected to Riddle. Of course…it was also possible that the basement contained _Mother's_ dark side, if she could possibly have one. Her regrets, perhaps? After all, this was her house, and it was a reflection of _her_ personality, and not his. Was it, perhaps, connected to the forbidden underbelly of the castle? Sometimes, even now, he wondered what lay beneath. No one had ever given him further information or instruction concerning that lower level of the palace, and Mother had never brought up the basement again.

He knew that she still wouldn't be in the living room with the fireplace—she'd had quite enough of that room to last her for a while, despite being responsible for the layout of the house. She deserved a change of scene.

As he was considering going upstairs, instead of down, she came around a corner onto the landing, and walked down to meet him.

"Is it September Thirtieth then, my son?" she asked, with an almost-vague smile, hands outstretched in welcome. Being part of any sort of nobility seemed to carry with it the inevitability of being raised at a distance, with no physical contact between family members (except in a duel, or practice duel; those were acceptable). She had, however, been known to defy tradition and stereotype before.

She was all in pastel blue and lilac, today, light and airy, or perhaps preparing for winter early. He was wearing exactly what he'd been wearing for the last several months—Dudley's castoffs, now ensorcelled to fit him, and the boots of unknown origin. It was possible that he had quite as much flexibility as Mother in what he wore, here, where, as she had told him herself, nothing was quite real.

Swamped by layers of tapestry, it was difficult to see whether or not Mother had bothered changing her clothes during that long stretch of time spent recovering from the dementors. Did it require an expenditure of energy? Did it make good practice? He had many other ways to practice his magic, regardless—more important ones: healing and battle magic (Thor was helping with this), Hogwarts magic, mind magic….

He doubted that it took any great expenditure of energy, though. It was almost tempting to experiment, just for the sake of the experience. But he only had so long here, and he needed to speak with his mother.

Really, though, how to even _begin_ to tell her all he'd learnt and all that had happened since last they'd spoken?

"Mother," he said, walking up the stairs to meet her. "A pleasure to see you again, always. Is there somewhere we might talk? I have much I wish to consult with you about."

"Outside," she said, with a sigh like the wind through the trees, which was fitting. "There is little time left to enjoy it before winter. We will speak outside."

There was a brief glance in the direction of the living room. He was not going to oblige her to speak with him, there.

It had been years since they'd spoken outside concerning important matters, anyway—everything had been set aside in the interest of preserving as much as could be of his mind and soul, last year,

In first and second year, particularly after his encounter with the Mirror of Desire, particularly after he'd drawn her out of this world into the waking one, he'd sought to learn how to replicate the process. He'd not given much thought to outside, but he remembered that Mother had brought him there on their very first meeting, as he'd explained to her all about his life up to that moment—before it became entangled with the Dursleys. Before the dreams had begun. Perhaps it was telling that this was the location chosen for their discussion of this pivotal year in Harry's schooling. It was the first discussion of the year since Harry had any notion as to what lay before him (other than Professor Trelawney's prophecy, which he'd been turning over for months).

"What ails you, my son?" asked his mother, sitting on a bench of stone, cold, unwarmed by the sun, which did not exist in this mimicry of the outside world. That fact did not seem to trouble her, as it did him.

He sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. News at Hogwarts came in fits and starts, but this was ridiculous.

"Tell me, then, have you ever heard of a competition amongst Europe's greatest three magic schools that they call the "Triwizard Tournament'?" he at last began. Her soft sigh filtered through the non-existent breeze of her garden.

"That name is unfamiliar to me. It is not an event that ever was mentioned during my own time at Hogwarts. What manner of tournament is this, my son?"

"They say that it is much safer this year. Dumbledore has told us little else, besides. The three schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, choose a champion, somehow, to compete in this Tournament. I am told that entering constitutes a magically-binding contract, and that we should take great care before we choose to enter ourselves. No one younger than seventeen will be permitted to enter himself, Dumbledore says."

She noted the way in which he spoke those words, his incredulity, and took his meaning.

"An ideal way to be rid of me!" he exclaimed, quite abruptly. "And it is 'after the Quidditch World Cup', as Riddle said in that dream. I suppose that was a true dream I had on account of our connection…that was why Sirius thought it so important. But the Tournament…without knowledge as to how the Champion is chosen, I have no way of preventing my name being entered. I _had_ hoped that you might know, Mum."

He shivered, and tried to move on, while he'd just invoked _Lily Evans_, before the discussion could turn to other matters which might incline him to invoke the other version of her.

"Everyone knows Alastor Moody, whom they call 'Mad-Eye'. Did you know that he is our Defence professor this year? I suppose that Dumbledore, too, fears that others will use the Tournament to their own ends…but I do not have the best history with Defence professors. Quirrell, and then Lockhart…I would not have minded if Tonks had returned.

"Professor Snape, and Headmaster Karkaroff are both wary of him. But there is something to him…even if he _is_ Dumbledore's friend, I find him difficult to trust."

"I know him from the war, Harry," Lily Evans said. "He _is_ a good man, if a bit rough around the edges. He fought the Dark as hard as any of us, and helped train many, even non-aurors, like your dad. No one has a bad word to say about him. He is the best in his field."

"Did you hear me, when I sought to invoke your protection, on our second day of class?" he demanded, his voice sharp and taut as a harpstring: it could cut.

Again she sighed, tilting her head back to face the non-existent sky. "I remember," she said, voice quiet and sad. "It does seem the sort of exercise he'd put trainees—or even students—through. But I don't think Dumbledore knows that he did. He would not approve."

She frowned her own disapproval, turning back to him. "He might be a bit of a maverick, but his heart is in the right place. I think he sometimes forgets that not everyone around him is a dark wizard out to get him. I suppose he reminds me of someone, that way."

He did not like being compared to Moody, but he realised that she was not likely to listen to his suspicions.

"There is more besides, other than the Tournament, and how to keep Thor from entering, and a professor, he who you would have me believe harbours no ill intent towards me."

She wisely did not interrupt his highly-biased summary of the conversation to this point, nor point out that he had not mentioned any potential threat to her other son when speaking of the Tournament—it went without saying.

"Have you heard of sorcerers, Mother?" he asked, not facing her. "Thor made friends with the doctor who saved my life at the end of first year. He is a practitioner of a magic of which I have never heard. Do you know it?"

Something sparked in her eyes. "Then, they are not all lost. What auspicious news, although I have heard nothing concerning them in decades…or was it centuries?"

This was either that same problem with trying to fit human conceptions of time into the much longer lifespans of home, or the same vagueness of memory that Harry himself suffered. It didn't matter.

"You know of them?" he asked, leaning forwards to hear what she had to say.

"I have little information to offer you," she said, with a gentle laugh at the way he briefly slumped. "But I know that they are the keepers of many secrets, some of which your father was never able to unravel—that should tell you something on its own."

The guardians of a secret, old magic, older than wizardry, a mysterious force of guardians who kept to themselves. Mother had little more to contribute to his understanding of Stephen than further questions. But he did not much mind, despite this.

* * *

Stephen was initially of little conceivable use for them. Even the arrival of the delegations from the other two great magical schools of Europe did not change this fact. By that point, however, Stephen had somehow managed to always arrive at about the same time every week—he was a quick learner, to an alarming degree. _Prodigious_, indeed! He was a quick study on just about any minor magic Loki could think of to throw at him to learn, which was somewhat galling. At the same time, he had to admit it was…_nice_ to have someone to confer with with such an intuitive and advanced knowledge of magic.

They were still far from being _friends_, at least to Loki's mind. But Stephen, at least after the first three trips, started up a habit of checking on their future selves at least once a month. This set the count of how many times they had met awry. But their future selves seemed to trust him, and Stephen seemed to have some sort of fondness for those future selves, at least, which was almost the same as having a friendship built on no foundation at all. It was a castle in the sky, like Morgana's—an illusion, some books said of the phenomenon. But those were muggle books, and Loki was a master of illusions, anyway.

Plans for how to defeat either Riddle, or Thanos, did not make any progress in these brief stretches of time. Quite sensibly, Stephen was giving them time to acclimate themselves to his presence.

With Stephen's periodic stays in the Common Room to consider, it was doubtless just as well that Gryffindor House was not hosting the students of Beauxbatons. This did not stop disappointment running rampant through the boys' dorms, at least. The Beauxbatons students were mostly women, and very pretty girls at that. Fleur Delacour, in particular, attracted a lot of attention. Some people thought that she was a veela, which was absurd. She did have long, silvery-blonde hair, however, and she was stunningly, inhumanly beautiful. There might be some merit in the theory of her having veela blood in her, but Harry had never heard tell of any "non-human" being allowed to attend a school—there were some rumours that Hagrid and Flitwick were not entirely human, but the emphasis, here, fell on the word "entirely".

Dumbledore welcomed the two schools with his true gryffindor chivalry and good manners. Harry took more note of the fact that Madame Maxime was, indeed, not the sort of person you would mistake, being taller even than Hagrid, and quite handsome, she cut an imposing figure for the Hogwarts students, and kept her own in line with ease. Igor Karkaroff, too, was worth noticing, if only for the fact that he and Snape seemed to know each other. However, both of them seemed a bit wary of Moody who, despite being inherently suspicious, was nonetheless something of a marker for other suspicious people. Snape's suspicions were one thing, as Snape was above question. Karkaroff, on the other hand, was a wizard about whom Harry knew very little, except that he was the Headmaster of Durmstrang, and he seemed scared of Moody.

Oh, and also, apparently Krum was one of Karkaroff's students. Maybe he and Harry would have a contest of skill at some point. For now, Harry would prefer to slink through the shadows and avoid notice as much as possible.

With the delegations came the other Tournament judges, neither of whom Harry was particularly fond of. Bartemius Crouch was one, which made Hermione bristle. He foresaw much renewed talk of House-Elf Rights in the future, and wasn't her formation of S.P.E.W. enough? He'd spent an entire afternoon mocking her choice of names for the group, insisting that he could never join a group with such an absurd name (and that no one could possibly take it seriously), which had prompted Hermione to demand that he give her some examples of what else she could have called it. He had given her ten, off the top of his head, and she'd seethed, and dropped the issue, for the past couple of weeks. Now, inevitably, it would resurge.

And here was Ludo Bagman, beaming around at everyone, still very personable and popular, which was not the sort of person Harry ordinarily got on with. Sirius, perhaps, but there was an air of insincerity that clung to Ludo Bagman. He had a darker side, one he tried to cover up with his great, absurd degrees of affability. That was Harry's real problem with him.

That, and the Twins seemed to have decided to dislike him. Although they wouldn't answer when asked, they were often to be found glaring at Bagman's back, and trying to corner him. They'd seemed friendly enough with him at the World Cup. What had changed? Did they know something Harry didn't? Of course, they'd shunned _Harry_, too, first year….

There were too many potential threats to keep an easy eye on. There were twenty new students each from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and Madame Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, and Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch, and Moody. Harry could not have been jumpier. It was just as well that Stephen had appeared at the beginning of term, rather than after all the new arrivals had infiltrated Hogwarts. While Durmstrang stayed in their boat in the lake, the students of Beauxbatons were lodging in the Hufflepuff dorms. There was no escape from them, until they finally retreated for the night.

He and Hagrid had become somewhat estranged during the mess that was third year, when he'd been notably absent, but Harry still considered him a friend, and not just one of his professors. But he couldn't be trusted with secrets, which somewhat limited what the Trio could speak about with him. And Hagrid, further, seemed to have forgotten their existence, with the arrival of Madame Maxime. Apparently, love was in the air. Just spare Harry, already.

The professors, for the most part, gave them a week to adjust to the new arrivals, which was hardly enough time to "build bridges of cultural interconnectedness" or whatever Dumbledore had said in his speech on the night the delegations had arrived. Presumably, the students spent most of their time in their respective lodgings, practicing for the upcoming Tournament (in case they be chosen by the magical thinking cup).

The introduction of the Goblet of Fire was done with much fanfare, but Harry was less than impressed with its rather over-the-top appearance. A silver chalice, from which blue flames rose, forever burning, an eternal torch. It just put him even more in mind of the Olympics, and the Tournament, with Dumbledore's excessive talk of building bridges, and securing and sustaining peaceful relations, already did that well enough on its own.

He was a mite curious about how he was going to end up entered in this Tournament, however, when Fred and George couldn't get past. Even if someone (he shuddered at the thought) used mind-control to make him enter his name, they'd be foiled by Dumbledore's age line.

Unless, of course, he didn't count as too young. But that set off an avalanche of questions. He'd already known that this was what Malfoy had been talking about on the train, when he'd asked if Harry were going to enter. But now, with a much greater knowledge of what the Tournament entailed (because why would Dumbledore have informed them before the night the Goblet was introduced; that would just give them plenty of time to forget his warnings?). Harry had to consider everything anew.

The Tournament would (so they claimed) be much safer this year. Harry wasn't sure that he believed that, but even if it were…he had no great desire to enter.

Thor, on the other hand…this was a challenge, and therefore right up his alley. He wanted to ask Stephen to tail Ron, to ensure that he didn't enter himself. Because he would, and he might even be able to.

"You are not going to enter," he said, folding his arms and staring his brother down. "No one doubts that you are worthy of being the Hogwarts Champion—or at least, no one who understands. I suppose Ginny and Hermione might be among those who should know better, and yet still underestimate you, however I—"

"Of course they'd choose Ron," Ginny said, sounding offended that he'd doubted her loyalty. "He came to rescue me in the Chamber of Secrets, and he went into the Forest to try to find out more about the monster, and how to beat it, even though he's terrified of spiders. That's got to be good enough."

Harry paused. He should have realised that people might be listening; it was a silly oversight, but the need to watch out for Thor was an old, engrained habit, and he'd needed to give the speech as soon as possible, before Thor could give him the slip.

"Alright. Then maybe _Hermione_ doesn't realise that you're the living embodiment of heroic valour," he said, with what most people would mistake for sarcasm. "The point is that you shouldn't try to enter. There is no need for you to prove your _worth_."

The word, deliberately chosen. He could see Thor's jaw tighten, as common sense warred against that impulsivity that had doomed them so many times before. He needed to say something more.

"Please. Remember why you are here. I am _begging_ you not to risk your life senselessly. They say the Tournament is safer this year than ever before, but when has that ever been accurate for us? Think of first and second year. Hogwarts is said to be the safest place in Britain! Ha! _Please_, Big Brother. True courage is—"

"I know what true courage is," Thor insisted, and stormed off.

How typical.

"What did you expect?" asked Ginny, which was a fair point, all on its own. But he hadn't forgotten, either, how it had felt, to have to watch him die, over and over.

Not to mention that if, by some miracle (could he use that word?) the Tournament passed him over, he did not want to be drawn in, as he once had, into the role of his brother's bodyguard.

"He listened to me, right?" he asked Ginny. She buried her head in her hands, and wouldn't look at him, so he sat down beside her, and put a hand gently on her back.

"I shall see to it that no harm befalls him," he promised her. "If I watch him constantly, there'll be no chance for him to even try."

Ginny looked up at him through a face streaked with tears. "You—you'll really do that? But when will you sleep?"

"Who needs sleep?" he asked with a tired smile. He'd gone more than a single day without sleep before. He knew that he could do it. "What significance is sleep, if Ron dies? You are not the only one to care what happens to him, you know."

She wrapped her arms round him in a crushing hug, saying, "Thank you. thank you. I know he probably wouldn't get past the age line, but—"

He didn't dare to move, even to speak. He had to wait until Ginny pulled away, still sniffling.

"Sorry. I may have got snot all over your robes…"

"It's fine, Ginny," he said. "I'm fine. Really."

Which may or may not have been true. The more relevant question was whether or not Ron would be fine.


	85. A Typical Hallowe'en

**Chapter Eighty-Five: A Typical Hallowe'en**

He did not give Ron a chance to even make the attempt, which must have been his first success in keeping Thor out of trouble in…well, ever. He had, perhaps, shamed him into sense. Thor was never long angry, swift to forgive, it was not long after their latest quarrel before Thor sought him out, seeming contrite.

"I shall not enter my name, even had I a means," Thor told him, head bowed. "You have quite enough to worry about as it is, and the age line gives me pause. I would not wish to reveal myself. Even chosen what I risk is greater than I would gain. That is what you meant to say, is it not? You need not watch me, little brother."

His words, as they generally did, fairly _rang_ with sincerity. Polar opposites, as Harry had once judged for simpler reasons, in his dreams. But he just gave Thor a level stare in return.

"Be that as it may, I promised Ginny that I would watch you to ensure that you didn't even have the chance to. I have gone far longer than a single night without sleep."

He did not mention that he fully expected to be chosen for the Tournament, somehow or other, against all possibility, probability, and logic. Did the universe bend over backwards to thrust him into danger, or did it only seem that way?

"Then I shall keep vigil with you," Thor declared. Harry considered suggesting that they watch the Goblet together, but his name might even already be entered. How would he know?

"You're not thinking of keeping a constant eye on the Goblet, are you?" Hermione asked, eyes narrowed, and arms folded, as she stared them down. She was somewhat alarming, sometimes. Harry froze.

"No," Harry said, even as Ron said, "yes". He glanced over in Ron's direction.

"I think it's one of those things—people find it harder to work up their nerve to enter, if they know people are watching. You'd better stay away. Just because you aren't old enough to enter doesn't mean you should scare everyone else off," Hermione said, looking back and forth between them, as if astonished that Harry should be the one who understood. He wasn't _stupid_.

Nevertheless, he mused, "Well, all the school, plus the students of Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, and all the judges will be watching the Tournament. If having people watch you enter would scare you off, perhaps you don't belong in the Tournament. It seems a right spectator sport."

Hermione huffed, and tightened her arms across her chest. Then she sighed, and tried to run a hand through her hair, but it swiftly became entangled in her hair-bush. She scowled, yanking her hand free with a wince, and lost track of what she was going to say.

She sat down on the sofa across from them, on the other side of one of the corner worktables of the room. Fred and George were often to be found here, poring over some parchment or other—not the Map, some sort of top-secret project that Harry kept intending to ask them about.

"How _do_ you suppose the Goblet chooses the champions? I mean, it's just an inanimate object. At least the Sorting Hat can read minds, but none of the champions would ever even touch the Goblet."

Harry clasped his hands under his chin, leaning on them, thinking. It was a fair question, especially if he wanted to figure out how not to be entered.

"Perhaps it analyses your handwriting," he said. "Even muggles believe that a person's handwriting tells a lot about their character."

Hermione shook her head. "But think about it, Harry: if that's true, there's bound to be a lot of people with very similar handwriting styles entering at the same time—Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will have carefully chosen the students they brought, to ensure as many good candidates for the Hat to choose from as possible. It would mean that a lot of people with very similar handwriting would all be entering…I'm not sure I believe in handwriting analysis, however."

Perhaps too similar to palmistry, hmm? He cast about for another theory.

"Sympathetic magic," he said, at last. Hermione frowned, a slight twitch in her left eye at the thought of there being an entire form of magic she'd never heard of. He pretended he didn't see. "Sympathetic magic combined with nominal magic—the magic of names, you know? We already know the power of names, I'm sure. '_What's in a name_?', indeed?" he glanced at Thor to see if he took the unspoken message. He seemed to, and Harry shrugged, and continued, "Names carry quite a bit of power on their own, and they're directly connected to their bearers.

"That magic of names…and this is a hypothesis, mind you… it would create a sort of entryway into the mind and soul of the one who bore that name. A connection strengthened by the fact that that person touched the piece of paper that they threw into the Goblet—whatever sweat, or blood, or maybe even dead skin, remained left behind on that paper. _That's_ sympathetic magic. Like voodoo dolls. You need a piece of a person as a conduit—that's how Polyjuice works too, remember? That bond would give the Goblet a way of reading the past thoughts and actions of its candidates. I can't imagine how that would work."

He resisted the sudden urge to return to the Great Hall, and study the Goblet of Fire with his seventh sense opened. Like the Room of Requirement, perhaps such a singular object deserved his full respect.

"That sounds really complicated…and difficult," Hermione said, biting her lip. Harry stared straight ahead, deep in thought, hands crossed, now, in his lap. It was only a hypothesis. His best guess, working with very little information. He wished he knew better.

"Entering constitutes making a magically binding contract," Hermione murmured. "I wonder what that means. I do wish Dumbledore had told us more."

Harry glanced down at the soft carpet underfoot. "I suppose it doesn't matter how it works, does it? Isn't it inevitable that I'll end up chosen?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, again, staring him down. "Harry," she began, and he knew that she was about to scold him. He glanced at Ron again, wondering if Ron had understood even part of his complicated explanation. Did even _Hermione_ understand?

Maybe he was safe. Maybe, between the age line preventing him from being (he shuddered again at the thought) _mind-controlled_ and _forced_ to enter himself, and that bond being necessary for his entrance, he was, for once in his life, exempt from the danger. He fully intended to stay as far away from the cup as he could until the champions were chosen tomorrow night, however. Not that it mattered: he had told Ginny he would watch Ron, and he intended to make good on that promise. It also gave him something of an alibi, which was a bonus. But…suppose he was _wrong_? Tomorrow, after all, was Hallowe'en, the holiday of doom.

* * *

Fred and George were having trouble finding a way to enter themselves. Harry helped with this by cheerfully insinuating himself into their conversation early the next morning. There were benefits to staying up all night, but cheer was not one of them: his was false cheer, the kind reserved for difficult situations to distribute the load they brought with them somewhat. Professor Lupin did the same thing.

"Hello, Greg, Ford," he said, nodding to one of them, and then the other. He didn't much care which was which. Like Crabbe and Goyle, they weren't individuals. They were a package lot.

"That's a new one, don't you think, Gred?" asked the first one he nodded to.

"It certainly is, Forge, " said the second one. They both turned to face him at the same time, which would have been disconcerting had they been two different people. "What can we do for you, little bro.?"

Harry glanced around the room. Ron had set himself the task of sentry duty, but didn't seem to be eavesdropping. He sat down in a third chair, twisting it inconspicuously so as to keep Ron in sight even as he spoke with the Twins. He gave them a pleasant smile.

"I was looking for a distraction from tonight's exciting news. I see that you haven't managed to fix that aging potion."

Forge scowled. "Yeah, well, we've given up on entering. We're rooting for Angelina."

Harry blinked. "You mean she entered?"

"A few hours ago. Weren't you paying attention?" Gred asked. He sounded scandalised. She was a fellow quidditch team member. But Harry hadn't realised that she was over seventeen. Just how many such students were there in Hogwarts, anyway? Everything about this Tournament struck him as unfair.

"Huh. Alright. I'll support her nomination," he said, nodding. "Would you care to tell me what Ludo Bagman has done to incur your wrath?"

Forge gave a nervous little laugh. "Now whatever makes you think that we don't like our good chum Ludo, little bro.?"

Harry folded his arms. "I have eyes? You glare at him and mutter under your breaths whenever he's around. You were all smiles at the World Cup—whatever happened?"

Gred tapped his finger against the table, a fast-tempoed little rhythm. "Oh, alright. Just because we think so highly of you. He didn't hold up his end of the deal. We bet that Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the snitch."

"Exactly what happened," Forge interjected. Gred nodded.

"And that's exactly what happened," he echoed. The tapping was getting more frantic. It was becoming distracting. "You see, he never paid us our winnings."

"More than that, the git never even _returned our money_. Turns out, he's already deep in gambling debts with goblins."

Ah, so _that_ was Bagman's dark secret. It could have been worse. Cross him off the list, he supposed. He leant back.

"So, you're blackmailing him? Is Wizarding Britain so backwards that you feel you have to resort to fighting crime with crime?" No, he was not preaching. At all.

"What choice do we have?" Forge snapped. "We can't let Mum know that we're saving our funds for a joke shop, and without an adult in our corner, we can't really take any _legal_ course of action—"

"Sirius would help you," he said. "He might be able even to contribute some funds to your project. He loves pranks. Dunno if he'd fight Bagman for you, but you could ask him for help. He told me he was going to go to muggle law school, although he never got even his undergraduate degree. Still, he might have some advice."

They turned and stared at him. Why did everyone act as if he couldn't think?

"Sirius Black was going to go to a muggle university?" one of them at last asked. Was it _that_ surprising? What better way to snub his parents' pureblood beliefs than to get a respectable muggle profession, the hard way?

"He was going to study _law_ before they threw him in jail? That's kind of ironic…."

That was a good point, at least.

"Shall I send him a letter from the two of you?" he asked, with a smile that suggested he quite deliberately had somehow missed what they'd just said. They were smart enough to know better than to repeat themselves.

"I do believe we owe you again, for this favour. Don't think we've forgotten first year."

Harry frowned at the reminder. "Don't think _I've_ forgotten first year. You two are too brilliant at the pranking business not to get your chance."

He stood up before they could say any more stupid things, returning over to Ron, who was still keeping watch, and not that much worse the wear for lack of sleep. Go figure.

Still, at least he'd forgotten about the choosing of the champions, for a few minutes.

* * *

Hallowe'en was not considered a day off at Hogwarts, although you would expect it to be, especially this year. That it fell on a Monday meant that people were even more resentful: it would have been easy to extend the weekend. Harry was even more distracted than the rest of them. Short of ditching his classes, he realised that he would never have been able to keep a constant eye on the Goblet of Fire. He could only keep a watchful eye on his brother because they had all the same classes.

Hardly anyone was concentrating on school—by lunchtime, most of the professors had got the metaphorical memo, and were allowing the students to do what they would have done anyway—gossip about who would turn out to be the champions for each school, particularly Hogwarts, whose students they knew best.

"Krum is the obvious choice," said Seamus, "and then…I dunno."

"How about Angelina?" Harry asked, and Seamus started. Was it _that_ incredible that Harry would address someone on his own?

"Angelina Johnson?" he asked. "Did she enter? I thought she was…I dunno, sixteen?"

"The Twins said that she entered," Harry said, with a shrug.

Dean and Seamus both turned to shoot him disbelieving stares. That was getting really old, really fast.

"You believed them?"

Harry smiled. Was that all? "I have a knack for knowing when people are pulling my leg," he said, glancing sidelong at Ron, the only person who would be expected to make more of his statement than was readily apparent.

Hermione huffed, but ignored the conversation. Indeed, she stayed out of the speculation entirely. She was, true to form, studying up on historical protests and reform in wizarding society. Operation _Spew_ was entering its second phase. Almost the only good thing about being volunteered for a death gauntlet was that he could legitimately say that he had more pressing concerns than Hermione's civil rights movement. How could he even discover how house-elves felt, or to what extent their natures corresponded to human ones? Was Dobby an anomaly, or precocious, ahead of his time?

Perhaps he should leave the moral battles to Hermione and Ron, and stick to trying to keep himself alive and to keep madmen from killing huge swathes of people. When did his life become _this_?

Unfortunately, he could pretty much pinpoint the answer to that question.

-l-

Night fell soon enough, far too soon, after a surprisingly long time for the shortening autumnal days. Time rushed in fits and stops. It picked up speed after classes let out for the day, and then crawled again for the Hallowe'en Feast. Harry was relieved to see that Sir Nick was spending this deathday at the Gryffindor Table. As far as he was concerned, the last Hallowe'en he truly remembered was the one on which Mrs. Norris had been petrified.

Without him realising it, his gaze drifted to Ginny. She'd recovered from those events much better than he. All he had gotten from the experience was Riddle's true name, a basilisk fang, and the Sword of Gryffindor. And the time was coming that he'd have to ask to borrow the Sword of Gryffindor. Such a contingency was inevitable, but it was rather vexing that the need should arise less than two years after he'd acquired the sword.

Of course there was always a chance, however slim, that it wouldn't be needed.

Ha. As if.

His intuition had been warning him for over a month, and it was generally right about these things. He didn't need further warning.

The Goblet of Fire must have some manner of keeping track of time, because it waited until after dinner to start spitting blue sparks. It even waited until after Dumbledore's dramatic introductory speech (or he knew that it was about to react, in whatever way he seemed to know everything). Harry didn't know whether it was Dumbledore and the Heads of the school who set a prearranged time for the Goblet of Fire to make its decisions, or whether it had always been set to the same date and time, which was also a possibility, and suggested that Hallowe'en had been an unlucky date for plenty of others—perhaps those slain in previous tournaments.

Whatever the case, the Goblet started sparking soon after Dumbledore completed his speech. He didn't seem surprised, but then he had said that he estimated that it required about one more minute to complete its analyses, in pretty much those exact words. Regardless of who had chosen the time, he had _some_ way of judging when it was about to react.

Blue _sparks_. Life wasn't just laughing at _Harry_. Of course, Ron was carefully looking at the tablecloth whilst fiddling with a fork, so….

Hermione, by contrast, seemed to have forgot to breathe, again, staring, unblinking, at the sparking cup. Harry wanted to remind her of the importance of breathing, but didn't quite dare. Any noise made sounded twenty times louder in this utter quiet.

"The Champion for Durmstrang…is Viktor Krum."

No one clapped harder than Karkaroff at this news, although many tried. There were quite a few cries of how obvious a choice he was for the Tournament, and Harry had the sudden suspicion that all those other Durmstrang boys had just been brought for show…or worse, as nothing but a bodyguard or support for Krum. Certainly, Karkaroff didn't seem to hold any of them in any sort of regard.

Krum did not seem to hear the wolf whistles and cheers from his adoring fans, but his strut might have been slightly stiffer than usual as he walked out of the hall. Of course, that could just be realisation sinking in as to just what he'd signed up for.

But, before they could discuss the matter, or the hall could quieten again after this first round of excitement, the Goblet spat out another small piece of paper. Dumbledore looked down at it, announcing: "The Champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour."

"Ah…the other girls all look so disappointed," Hermione said. Harry glanced over them, to ignore the much louder wolf whistles and catcalls that accompanied and tailed the French Champion. Dejected was an understatement: many of the girls were in tears. As were some of the boys.

Quite a few gryffindors glared at Hermione for breaking the tension. She squirmed, and fidgeted, and fell silent.

"And the Hogwarts Champion…is Cedric Diggory," Dumbledore finished.

Even Harry felt inclined to cheer. Cedric Diggory…yes, he was a good choice. He had a great deal of honour and chivalry, and was a genuinely good person. Harry smiled and applauded, and Fred and George glared at him, but clapped politely all the same. Harry bit his lip to keep from saying that he'd been a better friend to Harry than they had, which was only true in some respects.

"Well, now the Champions have been chosen. I hope that you will support all three of them in this tournament, and that you make those who were not chosen feel welcome and wanted here in Hogwarts, regardless. I needn't stress that I expect everyone in this school to respect all of the Champions, and—"

He paused, cutting himself off for the first time that Harry could remember, and an unpleasant shiver stole up his spine. It could not have been clearer why he had stopped, for the Goblet was spitting fire again. Another paper erupted from the flames, and Dumbledore caught it, his hand movements jerky, almost involuntary, as if automatic. Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

"Harry Potter," Dumbledore said, in a voice quite different from his usual pleasant one. It was cold, and rang against the Hogwarts stones. Harry didn't move. How could he?

He'd known it was coming, sort of, but, as he had so often, he'd tried to talk himself out of that knowledge. As it was, he was less than prepared.

"But I didn't _enter_," he protested, suddenly able to move. He sprang to his feet, anger at the injustice of it all already beginning to kindle.

"Professor, there must be something—" Hermione began, eyes filling with tears. Ron glanced over at Harry, hands in fists on the table, until he remembered the fire hazard, moving his hands to under the table, where fewer people would see them shoot sparks, if that was what it came to.

"I'm afraid there is no choice," Dumbledore said. "We will discuss this more in the other room."

Dumbledore stood, along with Crouch and Bagman. Harry stood where he was, determined to fight this thing, until Dumbledore said. "Your cooperation and presence in our discussion would be most informative and helpful, Harry."

Harry's shoulders slumped, because Dumbledore had a point. He'd need to be there to defend himself, and going to the Champions debriefing room wasn't agreeing any more than being volunteered was. He shot Ron a significant glance, turned to Hermione, glanced at Ginny, who looked as if she had folded in on herself, and might have forgotten to breathe, sitting still as a statue with her hands in fists, just like Ron, and then trudged out of the room, following Dumbledore. Of course this would happen. It was Hallowe'en, after all. He couldn't expect a different outcome.


	86. Accidental Secrets Revealed

**author's note:** And, after what I said about adding scenes of Ginny, all I've done is add one segment of her in chapter 89, and an unrelated segment involving Stephen in this chapter? What?

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Six: Accidental Secrets Revealed**

It would end up being determined that Harry would have to compete. He knew that, of course. He knew the inevitability of it. It was probably also reasonable to predict that Snape would follow him into the debriefing room to defame him before the judges, and make it seem that this was all according to some plan of Harry's. He had to see about sitting Snape and his Mum down for a nice, long chat, one of these days.

McGonagall was a less understandable choice, but perhaps she was at last ready to jump to Harry's defence instead of his condemnation. Harry could hope, although it didn't matter, one way or the other. This time, she had no power to save him. Maybe that was why she was bothering to be here, or maybe that was unfair to her.

Moody, despite also not being invited, was also a fairly predictable choice. He'd have to be there, as unofficial sentry of the Tournament. Perhaps he also had sinister designs for Harry that were coming into fruition. Was his speech about whoever had entered Harry into the Tournament hoping he would die from it a hint? Where was Moody yesterday? Perhaps he and Ron should have tailed the man…funny how sometimes the best of ideas only occur after the fact. It would have meant ditching classes, but of what concern was that to him?

_"Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school," Snape said. Did he __honestly__ believe that Harry had entered himself? For what? The attention? People stared and whispered enough as it was, and Harry needed space alone to think and plan for the future—the defeat of Voldemort, the war against…well, a certain purple giant._

_"Someone who wants to give Hogwarts two bites at the apple," said Madame Maxime, as if this were a game at a fair, instead of a life-or-death tournament._

_"Binding magical contract," Moody said. "He's got to compete. __They've **all** got to compete.__ Convenient, eh?"_

Convenient for whom? Harry wanted to know. Convenient for Moody, perhaps?

That night, instead of a quick glance, he stared into the Foe-Glass beside his bed, studying it carefully. There had been three vague figures there since the beginning of the year, but they were only now opaque enough that he could see that they were three individuals, and not one. One of them was probably Riddle, another Wormtail…but that remained to be seen. The manual said that as the threat level increased, and as the time of their impending confrontation came closer, the figures grew more distinct. It was possible, if rare, for the figures to diminish, fading away entirely. But that was rare, the sort of thing that only happened to owners who went out of their way to cut deals and placate the unhappy. Such people rarely purchased Foe-Glasses.

Despite the injustice of it all, and despite that he was only fourteen, he was bound into the same rules as the other, official Champions. He could neither ask for nor receive help from any adults, and he must remain ignorant of the coming challenge coming sometime in the middle of November. The whole thing was so galling that it took him some time, even after he marched off to bed without wishing anyone good night, to get to sleep.

Now that the threat of the year had truly revealed itself, Mother was more inclined to take charge, amongst her fretting. She reminded him of all the healing and defensive magic she had ever taught him—seriously, all of it that she'd _ever_ taught him—and then they'd had a discussion concerning the tasks. He'd insisted that her protective armour would do more harm than good in these sorts of situations—the last thing he wanted was to call attention to his special circumstances, which is what the armour would do.

By contrast, it would confer very little benefit that couldn't be approximated by a strong shield of some sort, combined with the same energy that was in the armour staying just under his skin, as they'd tested out in Moody's class. The problem with that, one of them, anyway, was the fact that his mother's protection remaining in that interstitial state of potentiality meant that the burning that usually faded as the armour solidified would stay as that constant, hand-on-a-hot-stove sensation from Moody's class. But Harry could work through pain. He would do whatever it took to ensure that his connection to Mother remained strong; he wasn't risking her for anything.

The next morning, the thought occurred to him to use Sirius's gift to keep him informed of the situation. He might not have given them the forewarning about the Tournament, but he was still new to all of this, which meant that Harry was willing to overlook that oversight, this once. Sirius was more than a bit alarmed to hear that Harry had been chosen (and this despite not entering himself), and said that he would confer with Professor Lupin, and comb through the nasty Black archives, in search of useful information. Harry had to be grateful for that.

He stepped up his practice with Thor, and spent much time in the library researching wizarding spells, and trying to find equivalents to useful tactics he knew from the _other_ sort of magic. Neither complained about the extra work he was making for them. Ron was, if possible, more concerned about the Tournament than Harry was.

Stephen arrived, as usual, three days later. Harry wished that he'd asked Stephen to return halfway through his usually allotted week, just so that they could monitor the Goblet of Fire.

"You're still in the future," Stephen said. "The tournament didn't kill you, then. As long as you take it seriously and stay on top of things, you'll be fine."

Somehow, this was more of a relief to Thor than Loki.

Stephen now committed himself to discussing what he'd learnt of self-defence at Kamar-Taj, and discussing healing spells with him.

This was how Thor learnt that Harry had access to Lily Evans on a monthly basis.

"Did I forget to mention that?" Loki asked, cocking his head. They'd discussed quite a few things since the big reveal last year.

"Yes," Thor said.

"Did it perhaps also slip my mind to inform you that Lily Evans, my Mum, is also _Mother_?" he asked. Thor stared.

"I assume that that is a 'yes'."

Something unfamiliar crossed Thor's features, an old shadow, perhaps, a lurking threat he'd once thought vanquished. Thor had rarely had cause to be jealous of _him_.

"You speak to Mother," he said. "Mother, who died, whom I have not seen nor spoken to in fifteen years. And you neglect to mention this to me, your only brother, even after I told you the truth—"

"I had other thoughts in my mind," Loki said, with a deliberate, flippant carelessness. A part of him wanted Thor to be jealous, to be bitter, to be hurt at being left out, to feel even a bit of what had driven Loki away from his family, but….

"I'll just… wait over here," Stephen said, backing away from the confrontation. He could hardly be blamed for not wanting to get involved. This was the politest way of bowing out.

"Brother," said Thor, his voice pitched lower in warning. Loki sighed.

"I honestly forgot," he said. "There were many other things to think and speak of. I assumed that I had said something, until you seemed surprised by Stephen's comment about healing. Mother has been teaching me. If you are about to die, I now know how to heal you, instead of hoping to channel enough lifeforce into you to keep you alive."

Thor's eyes widened, and his jealousy, such as it was, was defeated by the direct reference.

"You ought to visit home…. It hardly seems right that the doors to home should be barred to you. You are the Crown Prince, after all, and have fully proven your worth, unlike me. But Stephen has already said that he will help us to save as many as possible. And did you not travel back in time to save Mother? You shall see her again. I will see to that. However, in the meantime—"

"Loki, don't—" Stephen began.

"—I once managed to bring her into the physical world. I used the Mirror of Desire as a channel. I know that I can do that again. If you wish to speak to Mother, you need only ask."

The drain would be enormous, but he had deeper reserves, now; he could afford it. Clearly, however, those reserves weren't as deep as he might like. It was clear that Stephen's outburst was due to his awareness of the high cost of using so much magic as that would.

Thor stared at him, for a very long time. He turned to Stephen, as if sensing that he was missing something. Because he knew Loki too well to think that he would share what that was, he addressed Stephen, instead.

"Doctor Strange," he said, his voice ringing with that undercurrent of command that had people listening to what he ordered without even realising that they were. Stephen was not immune. Were he not full of arrogance tempered into mere self-confidence, he would probably have shifted uncomfortably. Instead, he looked as if he'd been backed into a corner, but was still ready to put up a fight…

…to the extent that a pacifist ever did, that was.

"Using that much magic is highly draining. Sustaining it for any length of time is the reason he was out cold that one day after Christmas of first year. Even now, it would drain a huge chunk of his energy, even for a brief conversation. Something happened in '98 that made it a bit safer for him to try stupid shit like that. Wait for that."

"Brother?" Thor asked.

"The offer stands," Loki insisted, leaning back against a wall, as if for an extended conversation. Thor seemed troubled.

"I will not endanger you for such selfish cause—"

"How _noble_ of you," Loki said, as if he couldn't resist baiting him. Stephen looked as if he were considering wandering off back to Gryffindor Tower—or just appearing there via Sling Ring. (Those things were highly unfair: apparently they had no unfortunate side effects, like dizziness or the feeling of being compressed and pulled along by a bungee cord attached to your belly.) Hermione and Ginny would probably be much better companions at such a time.

Thor walked over to clap Loki, hard, on the shoulder, in a moment that tried to remind him of something, _what_ wouldn't come clear, which was suspicious, as that probably meant that it dated from that period of time that was muzziest in his mind. He didn't pursue the memory.

"Save your energy, Brother. You will need it for the months ahead. I shall attempt to be more grateful that I have my brother back. I have much to be thankful for. We will fix the future, together."

"Yeah. Count me in on that. Since I came up with that idea, and all," Stephen said.

"And Hermione," Loki said.

"Naturally," Thor said, seeming perplexed.

"And Sirius, I think," Loki continued, more thoughtful, now.

"As you think best," Thor said, and Loki glared at him.

"None of that. What I said to Malfoy on the train is true: _you_ are the leader. You are the Crown Prince—"

"You are my brother," Thor protested, bringing up that same argument from three hundred years ago, or whatever. There was plenty of cause for them both to keep returning to that night, including the fact that it was one of the few events that they both knew they both remembered.

"You will be our master strategist and leader, and I will make corrections as necessary—"

"This is your quest," Thor insisted, in full earnestness mode. He was particularly insufferable at those times, because you couldn't even accuse him of superciliousness or hypocrisy. "You must lead."

"I think I would work better as the royal advisor," Loki protested.

"Well, all this sibling bonding stuff is very sweet, and kind of sappy, but can we get back to the point, now?" Stephen asked. He'd come away from the corner to approach the sofas in the middle of the Room. Next time, it would probably give them a battle strategy table—one of those with a map scrolled across the top and little markers. He didn't know what use they'd make of it, but he was confident that the Room would do an impressive job. It never did things by halves.

"Warrior cultures have some of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard of," Stephen muttered. "And I'm not just saying that because I'm a doctor."

"Your lack of comprehension makes complete sense," Loki said. "You were not raised as we were."

"That '_show no weakness'_ thing is shit," Stephen insisted. "Studies have shown—"

"It's a battle chant," Loki said, waving a hand. "It is intended to maintain morale and group coherence."

"And you two always bring it up as if it's a motto to live by," Stephen said. "_That's_ what I'm talking about. We humans have made a lot of progress over the past twenty years, as far as getting men to have emotions, and show them. You should research it, in twenty years. Your machismo isn't useful."

He leant forwards towards the table, and a sheet of parchment appeared there. And a quill. And a bottle of ink.

"Would a fountain pen be asking too much?" he asked the Room.

"Thor is the quintessential Asgardian youth; Mother told me that—"

"When was this?" asked Thor, with an almost sort of polite indifference.

Loki paused. "About five hundred years ago, I believe." Thor seemed to find this acceptable enough not to interrupt again, so Loki rounded on Stephen. "I _am_ human, you know."

Stephen paused. "Your Mom's a goddess in human form—an avatar, as I told Thor three years ago—and you're the reincarnation of a god, yourself, complete with memories and some of your old abilities. Hate to break it to you, but you're not _entirely_ human. I can't do half the shit you can do right now, because I'm not the right _species_. I can do even _less_ of the shit you can do twenty years from now, because you're always learning and creating new things. Don't give me that nonsense about just being a human teenager."

That was not the last time that argument arose; indeed, many of these same quarrels would recur in varying forms at regular intervals for the next twenty years. They became something like cornerstones, constants, almost reassuring in their formulaic nature. This ended up confusing both Director Fury and the Avengers quite a bit. For now, however, they were sources of discord and friction, to be ironed out. No progress could be made in their evil plans to save the universe until everyone's feathers were smoothed down, and they were back on the same page.

First priority: what to do about the Tournament.

* * *

Stephen, for his part, was a bit at a loss, still trying to gain his footing in an ever-shifting reality. He was realising that there was a very good reason that time travel should be used sparingly. He found it was impossible to keep track of what he had and hadn't told his…"friends", as what he thought he remembered telling them changed with every visit. What, for instance, was the location known as "Woodfield Palace", which he had, allegedly, told them about in that first meeting during fourth year, but had no memory of having done? He remembered speaking to them about "Patchwork Palace", instead.  
It took three journeys back in time before he realised that the difference between the conversations that he remembered having with them, and the ones they remembered—the "real" conversations, were mostly in small details, different words, different names, whilst the essences of the conversations remained as he remembered. Or, thought he remembered. Apparently, they had never happened at all, even though he remembered them—had not even happened in an overwritten timeline. Still, he could almost keep up.  
He was free to come and go from Kamar-Taj as he pleased, but he always had to figure out what to do about the Cloak of Levitation in the meantime. It didn't like being left alone. He'd sometimes roped in one of his friends (usually Wong), to babysit it.  
He tried his best to keep the essence of the conversations with Thor and Loki well away from the Time Stone and sorcerous relics, but he couldn't be sure of what he had told them in any given conversation, what they knew. He could not risk them discovering that he had the Time Stone.  
Indeed, such thoughts occupied a great deal of his mental focus that he would prefer to be fixed elsewhere. The good thing about interacting with his friends' future selves was that he could change those conversations. He was building up a list of the most ridiculous "tells" that had given away his secret to (usually) Loki, in this conversation or that. As long as that conversation lay on his side of time, his knowledge of how the conversation had truly gone meant that he could backtrack, if he made a mistake, and detour the conversation. It sometimes made for awkward conversation—and being told the same stories, and hearing the same arguments, told in the same words, more often than he would like. And, he knew that one of the mistakes that always piqued Loki's suspicion was when he failed to hide that he'd heard these stories before. He always knew.  
He affected a sort of mystical air, and said, early on: "There's some things that you mustn't know about, for your own good."  
Loki sometimes seemed to have a lie-detecting sense. It was how he knew when Stephen was hiding his own boredom with familiar conversations. The "for your own good" defence passed muster enough, until Loki inevitably figured things out some other way, and Stephen had to backtrack, and endure the same conversations again. It still limited Stephen's efficiency somewhat, especially in the past, where, for whatever reason, he couldn't overwrite previous conversations. If he'd been there in the past, he knew was part of the reason, then a future version of himself was already there. It must be that the Time Stone couldn't be in more than two places at the same time.  
Which made some sense, but made Stephen wary and Loki-level of cautious.

*** 

* * *

The first stage of the Tournament was, apparently, a quasi-ceremonial function known as "The Weighing of the Wands", which was there to ensure that their wands were in fully-functioning order, which was rather silly, considering that they still had a couple of weeks until the mysterious First Task. And would this be repeated before each of the Tasks? No, apparently not. That idea would make too much sense.

Still, he was grateful to be called out of Potions before Snape could threaten him anymore, or make him drink poison, or some such. For all that he claimed to be looking out for Harry (or rather, for all that others made that claim for him), he seemed still to be doing his best to do away with Harry, instead.

Of course, The Weighing was not exactly relaxing, either. For one thing, this was where and how he at last made the acquaintance of the Wizarding World's première libeler, one Rita Skeeter. His previous knowledge of her let him know that he'd best be wary of her, even had she not been _oozing_ false charm, and actual confidence.

Cedric Diggory barely had time to ask Harry whether he had, in fact, entered himself, before Skeeter was dragging Harry away. He was in something of a daze, still, from being unexpectedly called away to be photographed. The reprieve from Potions was nice, the paparazzi, less. At least Rita Skeeter didn't bring her pet photographer with her.

She set them down in a "cosy" broom closet, closing the door behind them, and sitting on an upturned bucket. Harry had to wonder if she were quite sane, and that was saying something, coming from him.

"I don't suppose you'd mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? Just to take notes; it frees up my attention so that I can focus on the interview. No? Great!" she said, in a rush, before Harry could even ask what a "Quick-Quotes Quill" was.

It was a bright green feathered monstrosity of some sort, covered in interwoven spells, which Harry skimmed over when he first sat down, out of sheer spite. Then, he saw what it was writing—some nonsense about him crying about parents he'd never known, and he opened his seventh sense, to better examine the spells.

Good thing he could multitask—not that he'd open his seventh sense more than he had to: it was too distracting, and he would have a great deal of trouble splitting his attention three ways. How to concentrate on the interview, and dismantling or rearranging the quill, _and_ what Skeeter was writing?

He made as if he were looking down at the ground, instead of at her paper, as she began to ask him all sorts of rather biased and inaccurate leading questions. You'd think she _wanted_ him to be the juvenile delinquent that Uncle Vernon claimed he was, or the supervillain he had been.

That hit a bit too close to home, and he redoubled his efforts, reattaching the threads of magic that connected the quill to Skeeter's mind to her superficial thoughts—a sort of stream of consciousness meandering tale was the goal, here, ideally one in which she confessed something nasty about herself, or otherwise damned herself before her readers. Best case scenario: she was published without having the chance to edit, and thereby showed the public her true colours. Worst case scenario, however, was still good enough: this interview would be ruined. What could she make of it?

And meanwhile, maybe he could give her something else, something to make her useful to him.

"Worried?" he repeated, tilting his head. "No, not really. I've some experience in these matters, you know. The school's turned against me, again, but that's normal, too. They've done that every year except last year, which was atypical, anyway. I do usually have a bit more time before they turn on me like vultures, but hey!, that's the price of fame. By now, I'm resigned to it. But don't get me wrong—while I'll do my best, on account of that 'unbreakable magic contract' thing, I'm rooting for Cedric Diggory, too. I owe him, after all. He was one of the few people who defended me when the Chamber of Secrets was opened a couple of years ago."

Rita Skeeter looked positively giddy, rapturous with happiness at the prospect of _this_ story.

"'The Chamber of Secrets'?" she repeated, leaning in. "Then, it isn't just a legend?"

He cocked his head. Had that not been in the news? How had they covered it up?

"It's quite real," he assured her. "In my second year, a bunch of students were petrified, including one of my best friends. A message first appeared on Hallowe'en—that's usually when things start going wrong for me—saying that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. 'Enemies of the Heir, beware'."

Rita Skeeter gave an exaggerated shiver, and he nodded. She was fixated upon this new story, and had quite forgotten the libel she'd wanted to write about Harry.

"I've been down to the Chamber, myself. The entrance is difficult to find, but my other best friend and I went down into the Chamber with a professor, who turned out to be evil. He tried to obliviate us…it was awful. And I had to fight a basilisk after he died in a rockfall, and I got separated from the rest of my group. The basilisk was Slytherin's monster, who was being controlled by a piece of You-Know-Who's soul that had split off from the rest. That's how I know what You-Know-Who's real name is. I don't think it's common knowledge. He's ashamed of it, so he tries to pretend that he never had a name. That's because he's a half-blood. Did you know that?"

Skeeter's eyes widened. "I had no idea. How exciting! A basilisk? You must have only been about twelve years old. However did you survive?"

Harry beamed at her. "With some help from Dumbledore's pet phoenix, the Sorting Hat, and a lot of luck."

"And what's You-Know-Who's real name?" asked Skeeter. Inwardly, Harry smiled. This was what he'd been hoping for.

"His name's Tom M. Riddle. That 'M.' stands for 'Marvolo', his maternal grandfather. He was the Heir of Slytherin, but his dad was an ordinary muggle. He got special awards from the school for framing Hagrid, which was why he was expelled—you will keep that to yourself, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I believe one hundred percent in source confidentiality," said Skeeter, in her breeziest voice. "To think, the most feared wizard in the world has such a common name…why I find it positively incredible. I don't suppose you have any proof?"

Harry shrugged. "Hogwarts keeps old records in the library, but he was also given a trophy as reward for his 'Special Services'. He was quite popular in his day—Head Boy, Prefect, the works. Not Captain of Quidditch, but he had quite a fan club."

"I see," said Skeeter, pausing to digest this new information. That was when Dumbledore appeared, twinkling, to fetch Harry. Again, the persistent, nagging suspicion that Dumbledore knew everything that happened at this school, and that if he had allowed that interview, he'd wanted Harry to do just as he did.

Skeeter made some protests about her prey being snatched out of her claws, but she had to acquiesce—_official_ Tournament business came first, after all.

And Harry had not told her much about himself at all. He wondered when she would realise that.

The rest of the time was rather boring. Ollivander had been called in to test the functionality of their wands. Harry learnt thereby that Fleur Delacour _was_ part veela—she had a veela grandmother. Cedric kept his wand diligently polished and shining, which Harry had never troubled with. Indeed, he explained as much when Ollivander eyed it, noting the smudge marks and signs of wear.

"That just means that I use it," he said, shrugging. "Such wear is a sign of all that we've been through together. I respect those experiences too much to wipe away all trace of their occurrence. Although I did clean it after the dementor attack last school year. It was covered in mud; it had to be done."

"Yes, yes, you're quite right," said Ollivander. "A little wear or imperfection never decreased the beauty of a piece of art. No, not at all. Yes."

"Are you willing to tell me more about its component parts, now?" Harry asked, leaning forwards.

"Perhaps later, Mr. Potter. Yes, you have taken excellent care of it, despite superficial wear. Clearly a strong bond remains between the two of you—"

"Will you at least stay behind so that I can ask you more about wandlore?" he interjected, and Ollivander looked much harried and put-upon.


	87. The Real Hogwarts Champion

**Chapter Eighty-Seven: The Real Hogwarts Champion**

The professors, for the most part, decided to cut him slack concerning his schoolwork, in light of his recent need to practise staying alive. The challenges the Champions were to face had all been decided beforehand; Harry was up against tasks intended for seventeen-year-olds, people with seven years of magical education under their belts (or at least six). Had things been different (had this not been a spectator sport), he would have been better equipped than the others. But, he couldn't use the _other_ magic without drawing dangerous scrutiny, which he must avoid at all costs. He had to protect Mother. And Thor.

Wasn't it enough that he had two prophecies hanging over his head? He didn't dare to use the _other_ magic in any noticeable manner, which meant that he needed to hit the library to study wizarding means of defence. Now, he had an excuse to drag Hermione in to study such spells. And, that wasn't the only thing he had an excuse to do.

He camped out in front of Dumbledore's Office a few days after the ceremony, arms crossed as he leant against the gargoyle, as if to push it over with his weight, slight as it was. He refused to stand here for fifteen minutes shouting the name of every candy he could think of. He was training with three different people in three different branches of magic (even _Stephen_ had been dragged into this, much to his dismay), but he knew that that wasn't good enough. If he wanted to win, or even just to survive, he needed familiar tools. He had the holly-and-phoenix-father wand. He had ever-increasing reservoirs of magic. And, he had an accumulating body of experience of fighting with "muggle" weapons. What he didn't have was a "muggle" weapon with which to fight, when the Task came. Or, rather, he did not _officially_ have one.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" snapped Snape, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harry gave him a bright smile.

"Hello, Professor, sir. Good morning! I don't suppose you know the headmaster's password? I needed to speak with him about recent events."

Snape sneered. "The headmaster is a very busy man, Potter, and has no time for your foolish whims."

Harry cocked his head, studying him. Snape seemed rather more agitated than usual. "Is something amiss, sir?"

"Don't think I don't know who's been stealing supplies from my personal stores, Potter. That innocent act may work on your other teachers, but I—"

"Ah, Severus, Harry. I hope you haven't been waiting for very long. I thought I'd have a nice early breakfast, but it seems I got lost on the way to the Great Hall."

Dumbledore was one of those people who you rarely knew how much of what he said to believe. Most likely, he hadn't gotten lost, but who knew, with Dumbledore? He might have deliberately wandered off to some far-off, forgotten corner of the castle, and then the building had rearranged itself.

"I came here to report that Potter has stolen more ingredients from my private stores," Snape said, shooting Harry a particularly venomous look.

Harry sighed. "I swear that I have never even been inside your office. Nor have I ever felt inclined to rummage through your private stash of ingredients. I've had better things to worry about this year…sir."

It was the closest he'd come to showing overt disrespect to this particular professor, who seemed to recognize this fact. Things might have grown ugly, had Dumbledore not been right there.

"I will speak with you more on this matter later, Severus," Dumbledore said, a certain dimness in his usual twinkle. Perhaps that was what passed for brooding, with Dumbledore.

Professor Snape recognised his cue to leave, turning on his heel with a dramatic flair, and storming off.

"Someone has been stealing from Professor Snape's private stores?" Harry asked. "What's missing? How does he know?"

Any little clue might help him to piece this narrative together, but Dumbledore didn't seem to agree.

"That is a private matter," said Dumbledore. "You have told me that you did no such thing, and I believe you. But, why are we standing here, when I have an office with actual chairs? _Cauldron Cakes_."

Harry trudged up the stairs after him. By now, it had sunken in that the entire school had turned against him, again—bar Gryffindor, who were often to be found glaring daggers at anyone who disparaged Harry, with the occasional fight thrown in. They'd had a party to celebrate his nomination, but realised eventually that what he needed far more was to be left alone to think. Gryffindor had united with him against the rest of the school, which was both charming and alarming. Schools and their cliques, eh?

Dumbledore closed the door with a wave of his wand, once Harry was safe inside. "Are you here to discuss the Tournament?" Dumbledore said. "Sadly, despite your unfair circumstances, I am not allowed to share any details concerning the Tournament with you. I hope you understand."

"Give me the Sword," Harry said, glancing at the shining silver weapon hanging on the wall. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose: Harry was not usually this direct. Or rude.

"You said that I could borrow it again in some rather extreme circumstances. I will need _some_ time to practice. Lend it to me for the duration of the Tournament. It is more useful wielded by me than hanging on your wall. I promise that I will return it, when all is said and done."

Dumbledore sighed, steepling his fingers through his beard. He looked very old. "Yes. You're right. I remember promising you that. I had hoped that this day would never come…but if you are the rightful wielder of Gryffindor's Sword, then, as his champion, you deserve to wield it. You are not to bring it to classes, however."

"Got it," Harry said, barely paying any attention to what Dumbledore was saying. He had approached the wall without even noticing, hand outstretched.

"I am showing you a great deal of trust in this matter, Harry," Dumbledore said, and Harry turned to him.

"I will not misuse it," he assured Dumbledore, before turning back to the wall. Dumbledore waved a hand, and the "sword" plummeted, sheath and all, towards the floor. Harry caught it in both hands, and stared at it. He'd forgot what it even looked like. Truly, a work of art. He was going to end up leaving the castle with both sword and fang, when he graduated. One way or another.

"Thank you, Headmaster," he said, with a smile. "That was all that I came here for."

Fawkes made a trill of protest, and he turned to the bird, who was watching the scene with rapt attention. "…Although I would be remiss, if I missed the opportunity to say hello to my friends, Guy and the Sorting Hat. Hello, Guy, you look well."

Fawkes gave a rather chirpy little trill, and puffed out his chest. Harry turned to the Sorting Hat. He knew that he would regret speaking to it.

"Perhaps, you might give the Sorting Hat my regards," he added, as Fawkes gave him a reproachful glare. "I should be heading to class."

He went to the door, and turned back to Dumbledore. "I do believe both prophecies are in the process of fulfilling themselves. I will not fail."

He opened the door, and left.

* * *

Hagrid might not have spoken a word to Harry since Madame Maxime's arrival, but he made up for it, somewhat, by warning Harry of the nature of the impending Task. _Dragons_, of all things. Well, Hagrid might be pleased by this turn of events, but Harry thought it was life laughing at him, again. Though it might also be laughing at Hagrid. Norbert was a _girl_? But Hagrid didn't care; he clearly missed her, going all teary-eyed at the mere mention.

Harry headed back early, and began to process the news. He knew about the First Task. Madame Maxime knew, and she would tell Fleur. Karkaroff had been noted running back to the ship moored in the Black Lake. That left only one Champion: Cedric, Hogwarts's most decent person.

He had to know. For one thing, Harry had no real interest in winning this tournament—he was trying to avoid unnecessary casualties.

_And do you think that saving a few lives atones for those you have taken? Is redemption a matter of balancing out books?_

And, his internal judgemental monologue was frenetic in its analysis of his actions. But, if he could save the life of this boy who had defended him even to his own housemates…. No, not even for the sake of repaying a debt. For the reminder that there were, in fact, decent people in this world worth defending, too. That fact was far too easy to forget, with news filled with stories of criminals and wars. And that, in turn, that despair, that sense of the ruined world, made it easier to think yourself above people—squabbling, greedy things that they could become, if you didn't remind yourself that not everyone behaved thus.

A selfish choice, then. But, one he would make, regardless.

-l-

"I don't know how it happened—this bag is brand-new—"

"No matter. _Reparo_!" Harry cried, watching as the seam sewed itself back together. "More important: the First Task is dragons. I'm not sure exactly what to do with them, but we have to face them, somehow. I don't think they expect us to _slay_ the dragons, but be ready for that possibility, too, just in case."

Cedric stared at him, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Harry got that look a lot. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Well, we're on even footing, now, aren't we? Cedric, I don't want to _win_, I want to make it through this year intact, preferably without encountering You-Know-Who again. Also, I sort of owe you for being such a decent person to me all the time."

"I'm sorry about all those badges. I've told them to lay off—"

Harry just shifted his weight, and smiled. "Don't worry about it. I'm used to Malfoy. Besides, you _are_ the real Hogwarts Champion. I don't know what I am, or how I got in, but I know that yours was the third name to come out. I suppose I'm just the spare."

Cedric was perhaps a bit unnerved by the fact that Harry managed to say all this while maintaining an even smile. "I'll let you know if I learn anything else," Harry said, before Cedric could reply, picking back up his own school satchel, and walking away. Cedric turned to glance at him, but walked off in a hurry. The professors probably were showing less lenity towards him.

He was on his way to his next class when Moody singled him out, yet again, to speak with him.

"That was a decent thing you just did there, Potter," he said, once the door to his office was closed behind Harry. Harry was thrown off-balance by this. He had been expecting a reprimand, or perhaps demands as to how _he_ knew what the First Task was.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, studying Moody.

"I heard you telling Diggory about the Task. That was mighty decent of you."

According to his lie-detecting sense, this was true. But all that meant was that Moody believed it.

"Thank you," he said, rather than destroy the man's illusions of his generosity. What else could he say? "Was that all, Professor?"

Please say "yes".

"I was wondering how you were coming along with your plans for the task. Dumbledore worries about you," Moody said, instead.

"I have some ideas, yes," Harry said, trying to sound more certain of himself than he was.

"You need to play to your strengths," Moody continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Don't forget that dragons can _fly_, although these ones will be tethered, so they can't fly away or attack the spectators. Basic safety precautions, you know."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why Moody was telling him this. He was hardly about to forget that fully-grown dragons were capable of flying. Even Norbert had had his moments. Her moments. Whatever.

"I have a class right now, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice light and respectful. He couldn't afford to show his suspicion of the man; that would make him close up the holes in his mask, and it would be harder to gather evidence against him. Harry didn't know why this all had to be so complicated.

"You may go, Potter," he said, sounding rather irked about something. Harry fled.

* * *

Despite the innumerable preparations to be made concerning the First Task, he took some time off to visit Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione. They'd arranged to meet Sirius there, at the pub known as the Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore was less inclined to judge them, and the clientele were more liable to overlook him than those of the Three Broomsticks. Last time anyone had taken a survey, Madam Rosmerta was still quite as flustered as Minister Fudge at the fact that she'd been wrong about Sirius Black. He was giving her her space.

Remus Lupin was staying at Sirius's childhood home, researching more about the Tournament, the repercussions of breaking the magical contract he _hadn't signed_ (thus far, sources suggested that it would strip him of his magic, which perhaps it couldn't, but why risk _that_?), and the tasks of previous years. There were three tasks, spread out through the year. The second one would likely be sometime in the middle of winter, and the last one, of course, in June. It was all laid out neatly for Harry's usual perils.

Sirius's concern was touching, as was the sheer volume of hours and work put in by both Sirius and Remus on this project. He'd have to tell them the truth. At some point. Probably this year. He refused to be one of those who kept putting off sharing a big, life-shattering secret with people who deserved to know. He'd received more than enough of that in just _one_ lifetime.

In the meantime, he and Sirius bored Ron to distraction discussing potentially useful spells. It was full of technical stuff that Ron didn't understand, or he would have appreciated the strategy behind it, instead.

Harry made sure to make plans to spend Christmas Break with Sirius, along with Ron and Hermione, before they left. He had a lot to think about, still, including what had been stolen from Snape's private stores, who had entered him into the Tournament, and how to go about surviving the First Task.

He'd also learnt quite enough about Bartemius Crouch to last a lifetime, including that he'd sent his own son to Azkaban after the boy was accused of being a Death Eater (by all accounts, he was barely out of school at the time), and that he had been responsible for _sending Sirius to Azkaban without a trial_.

If Harry had been suspicious of him before, he no longer was. That did nothing to curb a sudden intense antipathy towards the man. It wasn't only Sirius who had suffered for Crouch's actions, but Harry didn't have to be angry for his own sake, for that decade and then some taken from him. Sirius's staggered development and continued suffering from Azkaban were more than enough reason to hate the man.

He wondered how his poisonous influence might be negatively affecting Ron's sort-of older sort-of brother, Percy. Perhaps they should check up on him.

Harry had planned to drag Ron into shopping for robes during that trip, but there just wasn't the time. Instead, he asked Sirius to look for spares, and if none of them suited Ron, they'd have to go shopping at Diagon Alley during Christmas Break.

Which was more important: the question of how he ought to feel about Christmas, or the question of just _why_ they needed dress robes? Well, presumably he'd find the answer to the latter this school year without searching for it, which meant that, if he ever had the time, he'd have to turn introspective. Or ask Ron; it must be just as strange for him.

That brief window of a break was enough to revitalise him enough for him to throw himself back into various studies. Stephen had little to no experience with combat, but was learning quite a bit about offensive and defensive magic from both versions of Loki, past and present. Harry, in turn, could turn about and stack this knowledge on top of itself, regardless of whatever Stephen said about paradoxes. Who cared about those?

"Haven't you ever seen _Star Trek_?" Stephen groaned, as he stood up from the latest lucky blow. There were fewer of them, now; they were both improving at this whole _other_ magic versus sorcery thing. If it helped keep them both alive in the coming wars, it was worth a little sacrifice, here and there. The problem was that it was difficult to tell how much of it Stephen would retain. He came from an ever-changing future, after all.

Still, this entire Tournament was beginning to look a lot less hopeless, as were the coming wars. On a good day, at least.


	88. Dragons Breathe Fire

**author's note:** Since chapter 87 was short, and as I'm putting up a bunch of the 'fics I uploaded when I first started uploading things to my account (almost a year ago), and it's Friday, an old posting day: here. Surprise!

* * *

**Chapter Eighty-Eight: Dragons Breathe Fire**

The day of the Tournament dawned dim and blustery, reminding him of third year's disastrous quidditch match. He had to keep reminding himself that that was technically earlier this year. It felt _lifetimes_ ago. Even his memories of his past life felt closer to the surface, because they were genuinely separate from his memories of this life.

The judges called them down into a tent where the quidditch pitch usually was, and Bagman instructed them to wait there.

Well, that and he told them the information that they already knew—the Task was dragons, you had to fetch a golden egg from their nests without killing the dragon or breaking any eggs well, okay, those last few things were news. As was his explanation that they'd be drawing a small model of their opponents from a velvet pouch Bagman held out for them.

Harry reached into the bag last, and was therefore unsurprised when it revealed that his dragon was the most vicious of the lot—the Hungarian Horntail. What a surprise.

The number hanging around the dragon's neck told what order they'd be competing in. Harry was last. Of course. Still, he could make productive use of that time, planning.

He clutched the sword tightly in his right hand. He tried not to look at it. It would be less helpful than foreseen, in this Task. That didn't change the fact that he was grateful to have it.

_Remember, Mother…no armour_.

He knew that she could hear him. Anyone else would be frustrated at this further reminder, but Mother seemed to have infinite patience. He knew that she feared for him, and was sure that it grated on her and Thor both, that there was nothing that they could do to help.

At least Mother's love would provide a sort of shield. But he had to be careful not to get hit regardless. That would rouse suspicion, and suspicion might mean that people would figure out more about the strange bond formed by her sacrifice. They might be able to find out how to take her away. Riddle would try it if no one else did.

He thought over potential strategies, but he was not the chessmaster of their group. He was flexible.

He wore his quidditch robes, although they were easier to see and follow—he wouldn't be able to hide as easily, but they provided greater range of movement. It had seemed a worthwhile strategy at the time.

Yes, that was a poor decision. Now he'd go out and get fried by a dragon whilst wearing Ironman's colours. That sounded a good way to die.

It was horrible, listening to the commentary inside the tent. Cedric went white and had to sit down on one of the chairs provided for them. He seemed uncertain as to the utility of his strategy.

"You'll do fine," Harry said. "They designed this competition for seventh years, not aurors."

"They didn't design it for fourteen-year-olds, either," Cedric said.

Harry smiled, an outward façade of calm and poise, intended to reassure. "I'm not just any fourteen-year-old," he said, with a wry smile.

Cedric tried to smile in return. It was a valiant effort.

"Number Three!" called Bagman. Then, he tried to take Harry aside to give him some last minute pointers. Harry just stared at him, as if they were speaking two different languages. He couldn't take any of it in.

He tuned the commentary out by planning what he was going to do for his part. It would probably fall apart in three seconds, but it was reassuring to think that he was going in with a plan, at least.

All too soon, they were calling for number four—Harry, the only one left. Diggory had survived, but he seemed to have been scorched a bit. Still, everyone had survived. Maybe protections _were_ a bit better than the previous tournaments. Maybe he would survive this.

Without using the _other_ magic? He'd have to see. Everyone had put in so much work into helping him prepare. He'd just have to survive this, no matter what. No matter what he risk.

He strode out of the tent as if unconcerned with current proceedings, the current threat.

The sun seemed brighter than usual after the hours he'd spent in the tent. He had to blink several times, squinting against it. It was not yet solar noon, but the sun was approaching its zenith. Just as well; otherwise, it would most likely have been in his eyes.

He felt his resolve leave him. He marched forwards because you marched into war. He expected attack, an ambush. The wind pulled at his quidditch robes, but they were designed for aerodynamism, and the wind was not against him. It blew, in strong gusts, sideways.

The great black dragon watched him approach. There was no sense in troubling herself over one individual amongst many—until he came too close. It made a sort of sense. Besides that, she well knew the limits of her tether. But that did not stop her staring at him, unblinking. He was still out of range of her claws and teeth, when she cocked her head, sniffing the air, and spoke.

"_Stop_," she said, and his approach halted, from surprise more than anything else. Why had it not occurred to him, in all his planning, that dragons were the great snakes, often called overgrown lizards, not quite either, but kin. Perhaps he would have dismissed the idea, that parseltongue would help him to understand dragons.

But then, there was something else, knowledge gleaned from library research, complete with its own little bit of surreality, when he knew that it was false: some of his reference books had said that Loki had had a son, the Midgard Serpent, a great snake that encircled the Earth.

Though that be false (Loki had no children, had been too dismissive of the company of most, too bitter and jaded for love, to have relationships or children), nevertheless such rumours had to come from somewhere. An affinity with snakes, perhaps? What else would the Midgard Serpent have been, but a dragon?

The dragon that in some tales killed Thor, but that was a digression. Perhaps it made sense that he, at least, who had taken apart the process of parseltongue into its constituent parts and then woven it back together, might even be more receptive to the speech of serpentine-non-snakes. Norberta must have been too young—or something about his experiences since she had left had changed him.

Yes, in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised, but surprised he was, nevertheless, and he stopped, as if at the command. He reached for any knowledge of noise-suppressing charms, came up empty, assumed that the spectators and judges could hear nothing.

He needed to invent such a spell, later. For now, he'd listen to the dragon. Listening to what a giant monster had to say had to be the best course of action in most circumstances.

"_There is something different about your scent. There is something about it that I don't recognise. What are you?_"

That question, phrased that way, was getting old. He took a step forwards, as if he hadn't heard her, and she exhaled twin puffs of smoke from her snout. He paused, again, as if he'd just come closer to speak with her more easily. He wasn't even sure that he could, but he reached for that tapestry he had of the workings of parseltongue.

"_I didn't know that dragons spoke parseltongue,_" he observed, left hand in his pocket, right hand poised to draw. Her gaze snapped to him, studying him as if he were a curiosity. He supposed he was.

"_You speak the tongue of snakes, a diminished, degraded form of our own language. It came from us, and they diminished and degraded it. You speak pretty words for one who speaks a lesser tongue. But it is still a lesser tongue._"

Such arrogance! He did seem to encounter people with familiar flaws often. Did she think that she was better than he, just because she was bigger?

"_Why, thank you,_" he said, as if not offended in the slightest. "_You put much trust in your sense of smell, for one who does not realise that one among her eggs is fake,_" he observed, and the eyes narrowed at him. "_That is my purpose in coming here: to remove it. I mean you no harm._"

The dragon snorted her disbelief. "_A false egg, which you would take for your own. Too few of our young live to adulthood as it is. I will not sacrifice one._"

Right, well, he was not yet giving up on the most obvious strategy, now that he knew it was there. All of his other plans had had too much action for his taste. Too much of risk.

"_Can you not smell the difference, then?_" he mused. "_I would think that it would smell different to you. I suppose its creators thought of everything. Still, you might have noticed that it was a different colour than the others. Or that you had more eggs than you thought you remembered having yesterday._"

She did not seem to have a ready answer to this. He ignored the jeers of the crowd, the question as to what was going on. Were they out for blood?

"_Why would humans do such a thing?_" asked the dragon, sounding slightly less sure of herself than she had been moments ago. He took a step forward, but she was still watching him. She let him take two steps forward before giving another puff of warning. But he was patient. He could outwait just about anyone. Or he'd been able to, once upon a time.

"_For entertainment. Do you see all those people sitting in the stands? They are watching a competition—who can steal the false egg in the cleverest ways, without being caught or injured, without harming the real eggs or the dragon who guards them. But I did not volunteer for this Tournament. If I did not risk losing my magic for refusing to compete, I would forfeit. I am under no obligation to put on a show for them. And neither are you._"

"_You are asking that I step back and let you retrieve this egg without putting up any sort of fight._" She snorted what he realised was a laugh. It occurred to him that she was neither as old nor as confident as she seemed, curled in an imposing—yet regal—black ball atop her eggs. She was quite stunning.

"_I would fulfil my part in this 'Task', and you would be rid of a cuckoo egg,_" he said, taking another step forward. Her tail lashed, outside the nest. "_I would prefer not to risk harm to any party involved, which includes me._"

She narrowed her eyes at him, and this time tiny twin streams of flame left her nose as she exhaled. He leant to the side to avoid them, as if they'd been an oversight on her part.

"_You come bearing weapons and threatening to rob my nest, unwilling to even tell me what you are! Why should I trust you?_"

He shrugged, still with his left hand in his pocket. "_I have told you the truth. What benefit a lie, in this situation? And I would love to share with you my entire, twisted life story, although there is little time for that. But there is another out there whom you would say 'speaks pretty __words__'. Even the humans he attended school with believed his well-chosen words. He keeps a pet snake, who is __utterly__ devoted to him. Suppose you came under his thrall. I would lose the advantage of that knowledge, were you to share the answer to that question __for__ which he, too, seeks._"

She bowed her head without moving her long neck. A muted feeling, a sense of regret, washed over him, and was gone. She might have some sort of guard over her emotions, but perhaps if they were strong enough, or she wished to share them, they would still become perceptible for him.

"_Give me something to call you, and I will tell you one of my names,_" he offered, tilting his head. "_There is much power in a name; I do not make this offer __lightly__. And perhaps I can tell you of the difference in my scent, if you could only describe it._"

She paused. "_Mama called me 'Bone-Cruncher',_" she said, looking away from him as if that would preserve her dignity. She inhaled deeply, and he realised that the wind had carried his scent to her ahead of him. It was a strong wind.

"_You do not smell quite __like__ anything I have smelt before…but under that, a familiar scent of burning wood and smoke. It is very faint._"

He smelt like nothing she recognised? What did that mean? What could it mean, except that somehow…?

He waited for her to say he smelt of new-fallen snow, ice, winter, but she did not. Well, that was out.

"_They call me Harry Potter_," he said, approaching again. He refused to give ground. That that was forbidden lingered, hard-engrained, informing his actions, understood in his plans. "_I once lived in a palace in a world less diverse than this one. I suppose I smell of unfamiliar things because I come of a different world. And my mother's sacrifice runs as fire through my veins. That must explain your fire and smoke. She died to save me, you know._"

A flicker of silver fire gathered in his right wrist, circled down through his hand, and disappeared. He stared at it. As did the dragon.

"_You are not human,_" she said, staring at him. "_You are different from the ones who captured me. You are something else_."

He stared at her through his bangs, and said nothing.

"_You bear a sword,_" the dragon noted, with renewed suspicion. "_Are you a knight? You said that you lived in a palace…._"

He laughed at her, but it was not a mean-spirited laugh. She was quite young, whoever she was. Young, and uncertain, projecting false confidence. He understood that.

"_Many different types of people live in palaces. Knights, yes, and lords and ladies, but also kings and queens, princes and princesses, and even those most forget: guards and servants, maids and counselors, attendants and tutors._"

"_Kings!_" said the dragon, with much metaphorical venom. "_They send men to kill dragons. Back when it was not uncommon for humans to speak our tongue, we heard the tales borne, dragons slain at the behest of the King._"

He bowed his head. "_Those days are gone. My father is a king. I don't think he'd have had you killed. But I am in exile, anyway. I am only the younger prince, the one who will never be king, even had I not fallen from favour. You need fear nothing from me. I bear this sword in my own defence. A prince should not say such things __lightly_.

"_And that is a marker of my trust. You must never speak of them to anyone else._"

"_I will tell no one,_" she said, all innocent curiosity now. She stared at him with widened eyes. He remembered the crowd at his back, but was not about to let it dictate his actions.

Even if she broke this promise, the story was highly incredible. It was doubtful that someone as arrogant and sure of himself as Riddle would ever believe this—and what were the odds that their paths would cross, anyway?

Of course, Harry's entire life was a story about what happened _against the odds_. No bets should be made concerning him, either.

She stood, slowly unfurling great black wings. Hagrid had a point. Dragons were quite majestic.

She bent her neck down, after giving him a sharp look, and examined the eggs beneath her. One among them caught her eye.

"_Gold…_" she said, in a dreamy sort of voice.

"_False, I am sure,_" he said, "_A decorative finish. Even non-wizards know how to do that._"

She sniffed at the egg, and then picked it up gently in her teeth. The crowd gasped at that, but Harry stood there, and waited, as if absolutely sure of the outcome of their discussion. She set the egg down before him.

"_I refuse to be made a spectacle of_," she said, narrowing her eyes. He smiled, and bowed, one hand over his heart.

"_You have my thanks. I suppose I will receive the lowest marks of any, but I am in this to survive, and not to win._"

He bent down to pick up the egg, and found that it was heavier than it looked. But he was used to carrying heavy loads. He had done all the drudgery at the Dursleys, but there was more to it, too. He knew that, now.

He turned and walked away, as if he did not even consider that she might attack. And attack, she did not.

The crowd was utterly silent. Having listened, somewhat, to the commentary of all who had preceded him, he could guess at why. To their eyes, he had walked up expectantly to the dragon, and she had handed over the egg without a fuss. He alone amongst the competitors had retrieved the egg without injury, and he alone had done it without using magic. Or at least, that was what they thought; he didn't know if quasi-parseltongue counted.

He was still obliged to go to the healer's tent to be looked over by Madam Pomfrey, despite his lack of injury. Hermione and Ron had already left the stands to seek him out by the time she was satisfied that he hadn't been harmed at all. They burst in on him soon after her pronouncement. Ron's gaze shot to Madam Pomfrey, and Harry sighed, folding his arms.

"Even Madam Pomfrey agrees I am completely unharmed. You needn't worry yourself."

Ron's response was to crush him in a hug, which he should have expected. "Perhaps that is no longer true," Harry amended. "In which case, everyone knows to blame you."

"Well done, little brother," Ron said, as if he'd expected the worst. Harry scowled.

Hermione stared at him, eyes full of tears, but sensibly refrained from adding further damage. "What did you do?" she demanded, sounding petulant at being denied the opportunity to learn more by watching Harry in action. Typical Hermione, in other words. He hoped that someday, she would learn to prioritise her friends' safety over knowledge.

"Explained the situation to the dragon. Apparently, parseltongue is a 'degraded' form of dragon-speech. Makes sense to me."

Ginny entered, then, and he was rather distracted from what might have proven an interesting discussion about language and magic, and the interaction of the two. It would probably have dragged Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, kicking and screaming, into the mix.

"Harry! You're alright!" she squealed, throwing her arms around him. He barely stumbled at the impact, but, more surprising, didn't flinch or recoil. It was because of what Ginny had been through—that they had something _in common_, as if she were a fellow prisoner in his cell, an ally.

She was far too close, he realised, when he'd regained his footing. Her hair was messy and windswept and tangled, and her cheeks were very red from the sun and wind, and possibly from crying. With Ginny, it was difficult to tell.

There were several long moments of indecision, in which Ginny began to tense, before he sighed, and, very gingerly, wrapped his arms around her. She might as well have been covered with thorns. Could he go back to talking to—or even fighting—a dragon, please?

Unwilling to overstep his bounds with her, as he had too often before, he counted to five, and then withdrew, holding her at arm's length.

She was still too close. He let go, before he could do something that he would likely regret when she never spoke to him again. He'd made her cry quite often enough, thank you, and he seemed determined to persist in just that, judging by a certain redness in her eyes.

"I'm fine, Ginny," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose you thought that just because Hermione didn't crush me to death, and the dragon didn't torch me, you would have to suffocate me."

"You _jerk_," she said. "Ooh! I thought—going in, I thought, sure, you'd killed a basilisk, and all, to—to save me—" Red flooded her cheeks, which was the only indicator that it had receded at all. "But dragons…dragons are different. Dragons breathe fire."

"That's what they're known for, yes," he said, glancing at Ron and Hermione, who looked far too smug. That confirmed it. They were spending too much time together, and Ron was rubbing off on her. He shuddered to think what the result of that might end up being.

"Ooh!" Ginny said, stomping her foot. "Just never mind! I don't know why I talk to you, sometimes, Harry Potter!"

She stormed back out of the tent, and he was very sorry to see her go. He turned a puzzled frown to Ron and Hermione.

"Alright. _Now_ what have I done?" he asked.

Hermione facepalmed, but after that, silence reigned.

-l-

"Well, I suppose we should go see about your scoring," said Hermione, after a few minutes had passed. It shouldn't take that long for the judges to confer, should it? Probably, they'd been kept waiting for him. Let them wait.

He gave a non-committal shrug, and waved at Madam Pomfrey on his way out.

Hermione and Ron accompanied him to the judges table. They did not seem to notice Ron or Hermione, but they frowned at Harry's tardiness. He just smiled at them. Only Bagman was smiling at him, in return. But Dumbledore was twinkling behind his glasses, as if he knew all about Harry's complete indifference to the entire affair.

Bagman was the first to stand, with a conspiratorial smile at Harry that everyone should have found as suspicious as Harry, and a number eight shot into the air. "For being the only Champion not to harm any of the eggs, _or_ be harmed, himself. I've said I thought you used rather more magic than it looked, and—"

A number four from Crouch shut him up. Bagman fake-pouted at the interruption, but took it in stride, with the cheerful enthusiasm Harry remembered from the World Cup.

Dumbledore shot him a knowing smile, as if he knew precisely what Harry had done, but ended up giving him a six. "I think you'll find that Mr. Potter used magic after all, in this task, my dear Madame Maxime—but not a very showy sort. Well thought out, Harry."

Harry shrugged. It hadn't been thought out. But he was not about to say that, either.

He didn't even blink when Karkaroff and Madame Maxime gave him zeroes, although Ron and Hermione seemed indignant.

"But Harry, that was really impressive!" she protested.

"Not much in the way of entertainment, was it?" he asked. He turned to go, and Crouch said,

"Wait a minute, there, Mr. Potter. The Champions will be given further instruction together, now that the First Task is over. You are required to be there."

The "lose your hangers-on" was implied, but not express.


	89. Just Like Cinderella

**Chapter Eighty-Nine: Just Like Cinderella**

The dress robes were required for a ball. An actual, bona fide, Cinderella type ball. Dancing lessons were not being offered, which might mean that the music was modern. Harry wouldn't know: he'd never heard of the Weird Sisters. Although he thought that that was the name of the witches in _Macbeth_. Or maybe it was _Wyrd_.

He learnt about this so-called "Yule Ball" from McGonagall, who made her announcement at the end of class, and then took Harry aside to tell him that, as one of the Champions, he was required to open the Ball, which meant that he needed to find a date. Also, that she was more than slightly aggravated at the fact that he'd not signed up to stay behind at Hogwarts over the holidays.

"I've done that the past three holidays here at Hogwarts," he said. "No one wanted to take me in. Now I've got family, and I mean to spend the Break with them. I didn't sign up for this Tournament. As long as I show up for the Ball, no one can possibly say that I've not done my part." His level stare and voice dared her to object.

"I am spending the holidays with Sirius, Remus, and Ron. And maybe Tonks and Hermione. I will attend whatever functions are required of me, but I refuse to let anyone take from me what I have only recently obtained."

_Particularly not when Stephen says that they will be dead, Sirius and Remus both, within a few years_.

He did not add that aloud. Instead, he glanced at Ron. He meant to tell Sirius, soon, this year, and he was running out of time. If Hermione and Tonks were not there… perhaps, he would do it during that span of time before the Ball.

Ron did not take his meaning. Harry'd have to tell him more directly. And perhaps consult with Stephen. When had life become so complicated?

He stood from his desk—he'd given McGonagall time to say her piece. Surely, she should concede the point.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Potter," she said, dabbing at her eyes beneath her spectacles. "You're right, of course. But do be sure to show up for the Christmas Feast, and the Yule Ball. And bring a date."

He nodded his agreement to the terms, and left. That was part of the plan, regardless.

* * *

Unfortunately for him, plans do not always translate well to action. Instead of immediately asking her to be his date for the Ball, he found himself instead reconsidering the morality of such a relationship. How old was he, anyway? Fourteen? Over a thousand years old? Or somewhere in between? He decided that it was silly to consider the first and last ideas; _Ron_ might qualify for that dilemma, but not he. That left the second one, the more pertinent, more ridiculous one.

Ron was his elder brother. Ginny was Ron's younger sister. Ron was his adopted older brother. Ron was his half-brother. Ginny was Ron's biological sister. Put that together, and…just what sort of messed-up concoction did you end up with?

In other words: faced with the prospect of asking her to the Yule Ball, he instead pestered Ron (Thor) about why he hadn't yet asked Hermione. It took him a week of turning over the convoluted connection of relationships surrounding him, Ron, and Ginny before he was forced to seeking for such an outlet, but he was restless for more reasons than just one. He was running out of time in the year in which to share his big secret with Sirius, which meant that it would naturally occur when he went to Sirius's childhood home for the holidays (the holiday which was another matter that he was deliberately not thinking about).

"So, have you asked Hermione to the Ball yet?" he said, sitting down in one of the armchairs next to Ron's. He was trying for a deliberately casual air.

"Have you asked Ginny?" Ron replied, which was not the sort of response Harry expected from him. He blinked, feeling a bit wrong-footed, now.

Harry glanced around the room, and leant closer. "…_Well_," he said, "I _am_ a bit stuck on the morality or acceptability of that. I mean, Ginny is your younger sister, and you're my older brother. Doesn't that make her my sister?"

He didn't think it did. They were too many steps removed. Only the Weasley-by-extension model provided any real stumbling block, but his mind had decided to dig in its metaphorical heels, because the alternative would be to just ask her to the Ball, which was an alarming prospect, for some reason. Suppose she said no?

"No," said Ron, frowning as if he had no idea where this argument had even come from. "It is quite simple. Ginny may be my younger sister, but you are unrelated to her."

Harry sensed that, for him, it _was_ so cut and dry. How did he even keep track of any of this? He must have been a great deal more complex than Harry—or Loki—had ever given him credit for.

Harry's question seemed to have broken down some invisible wall, because Ron said, "Do you not think that Hermione is far too young for me to attempt to pursue any sort of romantic relationship with her?"

Harry frowned, and blinked, and considered the question as he did. This seemed a far more ridiculous question.

"No," he said, leaning back in his seat. He kept his sixth sense on the lookout for any warning that people might be listening, but that failed humans all the time. He kept his eyes peeled, and cast a surreptitious gaze around the room. He still hadn't invented a noise-boundary spell. "Thor, you come from a different world, where people have a proportionately longer lifespan. If you are looking for someone who can match you for number of years lived, the person who comes closest is Dumbledore. And since you're not attracted to men, that wouldn't work so well, even if, legally speaking, he wouldn't have the same problem you've just laid out, only, in his case, it would be legally and morally justified. He is an old man. Older than your father, despite his fewer years."

It was telling that it took a moment for Thor to protest, "He is _your_ father, too." It was equally telling that when Harry dismissed this statement with a wave of his hand, he did not repeat himself with greater vehemence. This must be eating away at him.

"You dated that girl—Jane, and she was only in her twenties. Hermione is fifteen, and you're fourteen, right now, same as I am. But, fine, you're just an _avatar_, as Stephen put it, and you're a millennium and a half old. That's just in accumulated years, however. _Emotionally__ and __mentally_ is what counts. And there…well you don't seem to have the impulse control thing down yet, so…I think you'd be, judging by appearance and behaviour, somewhere in what would be the human range of seventeen to twenty. Which means that, maturity wise, you're only slightly older than Hermione—and you'll be stuck in that range for longer than she'll be alive. Basically, yes, you're a bit older than her, but only a negligible amount, once you've done the translation. Was that all that was troubling you?"

Thor looked as if he were not entirely sure that he'd heard right, and he was certain that he didn't understand what he _had_ heard. It was just as well Harry hadn't brought up Stephen's explanations on hormones and prefrontal cortices (whatever those were). Thor seemed a bit lost as it was.

"Just take it from me, big brother. You're not too old for her. Now go ask her."

He stared at the table before him, as if it would offer up suggestions as to what he should do. Thor did not leave. The table did not animate itself and offer suggestions. They both waited, instead. It was clear that Ron _was_ affected by human hormones—at least to an extent—or else the veelas would have had no effect on him, and he wouldn't have been so uncertain and indecisive about Hermione—especially not after what Harry had just said. He was the bold, risk-taking one. But adolescence was hard enough the first time.

"Fine," Harry said. "I'll ask Ginny, and you ask Hermione. Who need ask first shall be dictated, as it must, by which of them shows her face first. Given what we know of them, that will be Ginny. Hermione will be in the library until nightfall."

Thor did not offer up any sort of objection. He might have been a statue, for all that he moved. Harry took this as tacit agreement, rather than try to force a promise from him.

Ginny, sure enough, was first to appear, all red with health and glowing from the cold weather. Of course she'd been outside, and out practicing quidditch. Wasn't she cold, though? It was very nearly December, now, after all. Already, a winter chill was setting in.

Harry gave Ron a meaningful look, and stood up to meet Ginny. "Hello, Ginny. Have you seen Hermione?" He kept his voice light and casual. Ginny frowned as she turned to face him.

"She's in the library," she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion. She glanced at Ron, and then looked back at Harry, and he realised that she didn't know what was going on. That was rather unfair to her. He glanced around the room, but it was mercifully empty. "I think I finally managed to talk Ron into asking her out," he said. Ginny beamed.

"_Finally_," she said, coming over to stand in front of their table. "I think you'd best go to the library, Ron."

He seemed a bit dazed and dizzy from these recent turns of events. Harry had considered not telling Ginny, but then had decided that Ron needed the extra push. He might even be right: Ron finally stood, and started for the door. He walked as a sleepwalker does, as if not totally aware of what he was doing.

"A word with you, Ginny, if I might," Harry said, as Ginny took Ron's departure as her cue to leave. Ginny halted in her tracks, and turned to look at him over her shoulder, as if he were unworthy of more of her attention. Maybe he was. He stood up, and walked over to her, and then around to face her.

"Well, what is it?" she snapped. She was still carrying the old school broom she'd borrowed for practice and games. She was starting to shiver. Although unfamiliar with the sensation of _physical_ coldness, he nevertheless felt some sort of twinge at the sight of her, shivering there.

"I shan't keep you long," he said. "I only wondered…" he paused, closed his eyes, and gathered whatever daring and nerve he had. "I was wondering if you'd go to the Yule Ball with me."

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him for a second, mouth agape, before she realised that fact, and closed it. She dropped the broom, but made no immediate move to pick it up. She blinked at him, and then frowned.

Then, she seemed to shrink in on herself, hunching her shoulders, and looking down. "I'm _really_ sorry, Harry," she said, biting her lip, not meeting his eyes. "Neville asked me already, and—and I thought, I wouldn't be able to go, otherwise—you know that it's only open to fourth years and higher… I never thought you'd ever ask me."

He looked down at the ground, too. He gave a shaky laugh. "Don't worry about it," he said, with a hollow smile. "I'm glad you found a date!" To think, he'd _liked_ Neville before this. It was rare to find someone who didn't think that the Killing Curse was the worst of the Unforgivables, and there was something else he was still trying to put together. Somehow, the Cruciatus was connected to Neville's tragic backstory. How?

Now, he was much less inclined towards sympathy towards Neville, but he held onto that corner of himself that knew that he was being unreasonable, that he was being _jealous_, and that if Neville had greater courage than he, he should be proud of that fact, for Neville's sake. That was rather hard to remember, though, particularly in light of the predicament it put Harry in.

"Well, then, since the only girl I wanted to go to the Yule Ball with is going with someone else, now what do I do?" he asked, with a bitter little laugh. Ginny stared at him, as if all of this were coming out of nowhere, and she wasn't entirely sure that he was sane. Which just meant that she was understanding him better than she had before. Her eyes softened into what must have been pity, but he refused to raise his head to look at her more clearly.

"Well…" she said, biting her lip, "I do know someone else who I doubt has a date. Maybe you could ask her."

"I don't think they'd let me come alone," he said. He was a bit worried about this mystery person, who Ginny doubted had a date, but…it was still early. Perhaps…. "But I insist upon meeting her, first. It would hardly do if we didn't get on."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, I think you'd get on just fine," she said. "You're the same kind of weird."

Which was just about the least reassuring thing she could have said.

-l-

To his surprise, however, Ginny was right: they did get on. And it wasn't only because Ginny's friend was a difficult person _not_ to get on with. She was rather distant and thoughtful, and only seemed tangentially aware of reality unfolding around her, and therefore, less than aware of any insults directed her way. Not that he'd done any insulting; he was relying on what she and Ginny had to say of how her fellow third-years treated her.

Ginny sat back and watched, with something of growing horror. She'd thought her childhood friend and Harry would get on, but not quite this well. They were both weird, in an oddly compatible way. Harry, for instance, was the only person Ginny had ever seen take Luna's ramblings about imaginary creatures seriously, asking for more information on crumple-horned snorkacks and blubbering humdingers, or whatever they were (Ginny herself forgot the names almost as soon as she heard them). He even asked for a copy of Xenophilius Lovegood's _magnum opus_: his bestiary.

"You're Harry Potter," Luna said, when Harry first entered the classroom where Ginny had set up the meeting. Harry blinked, cocked his head, stared at her, doubtless noticing all the small details.

"I know I am," he said, with an amused little grin. "I don't think I know your name, though."

Ah. Oops. "I'm Luna Lovegood," Luna said, already distracted, as she gazed at the air around Harry's head. She must have been satisfied by the results of her analysis, because she didn't comment on the wrackspurt population, or whatever they were.

"'Lovegood'?" he repeated. He paused a while, to retrieve some memory or other, and then said, "Aha! You're the family we weren't waiting for, on the hill before the Quidditch World Cup."

Which meant nothing to Luna, unless her sharp ravenclaw intellect let her cut through and connect invisible dots. Ginny often thought it did.

"I don't like quidditch," she announced. "It's boring. I suppose it might be fun to play, but there are plenty of interesting things around us, if we just keep our eyes open. All sorts of creatures live in the Forest, for instance. That's why it's forbidden. I like to go speak to the thestrals, myself."

Harry stared at her, and then leant forwards. "You can see _thestrals_?" he asked. And then he blinked, as if realising he'd said something offensive, which had never happened when he'd spoken with Ginny. She gritted her teeth, and kept an eye on them. "I'm sorry, Luna."

Luna looked up at the ceiling, seeing something only she could see. "Don't apologise. Dumbledore says that death is just the next great adventure. I don't think we should be sorry if those we love are living more exciting lives than we are. They can probably see all sorts of creatures that are invisible or difficult for us to spot. I suppose people who almost die, and then come back, are the people who report sightings of such rare creatures. They're how we know they exist to begin with."

He considered this for a moment, and then nodded. "That makes sense. Grims are like that, right? People only see them sometimes, and the rest of the time, they're invisible. To see one is an omen of death—but it's because you're already in the boundary-place between life and death."

"I was thinking more about crumple-horned snorkacks, and heliopaths, and all those other things people make fun of me for believing in."

He blinked, cocked his head, brow furrowed in concern. "They mock you for believing in what they haven't experienced but…isn't that just like muggles who disbelieve in magic? How could any muggleborn, or even half-blood, be dismissive of a thing just because they've never seen it?"

"My father is trying to raise awareness of those secrets—the creatures people don't believe in, and opinions no one else listens to. He aims to be a voice of truth, one who doesn't judge a belief by how widespread it is."

Harry didn't seem to know what to make of this. "And he told you of these…snorkacks? What are they? What do they do?"

It was the first time she'd ever seen anyone genuinely interested in Luna's weird creatures. Ginny bit her nails, and then realised that she was indulging in a habit she'd been trying to break, sticking her hands in her armpits and biting her lip, instead.

Luna went on about the whatsits for a while, and then moved onto thingamabobs, and thence to whatchamacallems. Harry asked if it would be possible to obtain a copy of Mr. Lovegood's bestiary, and Ginny wilted. She'd put her foot in it, this time. Sure, she'd wanted Harry to have a decent date for the Ball, she wanted him to be happy, and Luna was her friend, who rarely had a chance to shine…but maybe she'd done a bit _too_ good of a job at playing matchmaker. Harry and Luna were definitely a compatible sort of weird. But…she had a date of her own. She had Neville, who was sweet, and a bit awkward, and shy, but brave and dependable, too. And he'd asked her out, rather than kept her waiting on tenterhooks.

And yet…she wished that she were going to the Ball with Harry. She couldn't help it. Luna could have gone with Neville. They would probably have gotten on fairly well. Neville was open-minded, and he didn't like those who mocked others just for their different beliefs. He would have been good to Luna.

Ginny hated watching how well her childhood friend and Harry got on. By the end of the meeting they were some sort of friends, at the very least, and Harry seemed much cheerier than he had been before the interview started. It was insane. In other words, as Harry was involved, it went exactly as she should have expected.

* * *

Ginny Weasley leant back against the wall outside the Charms Classroom, waiting for her only friend other than Hermione to show up, to have a short chat with her concerning a matter of consistent frustration for Ginny: Harry Potter.  
How was she to know that he had any sort of romantic interest in her before he'd asked her to the Yule Ball, out of the blue? Every encounter they'd ever had seemed to be filled with mixed signals. He'd be solicitous and almost charming one minute, and then mocking and sarcastic the next, until she'd storm off in frustration. "Mixed signals" was putting it mildly!  
It didn't help that, up until that day he'd offered to help her with her Ancient Runes homework, she'd thought of him as sort of a George, but one who liked arguments. She knew he argued with Ron and Hermione all the time, and they were close. So, she'd tried to be that for him. Someone who could argue with him as an equal.  
Her first attempt, back home, at cheating to win an argument showed he didn't respect that, so she'd stuck to the rules when they'd discussed coursework. But, maybe he looked for something in a love interest than he did in his friends, even though your significant other was supposed to be your best friend. Maybe, he didn't want someone who could hold her ground in an argument. Maybe she'd missed her chance, and driven him away, instead.  
If only he made sense! She'd thought she understood him several times already. The Dursleys ensured that he didn't fit in any standard social model, and had to figure out social norms from scratch. Fine.  
Then, he'd saved her life back in first year, and she'd thought... well, she thought he respected strength, and she had a strong character, she knew that. No one had ever offered to help her through the ordeal that had been her first year (sometimes, she wondered, had it ruined her, had it broken her, after all?) except for Harry, and she thought she was holding up well enough on her own.  
Then, he'd been in and out like a flickering candle, last year, and she'd spoken with him, several times, but he didn't remember it. She knew he didn't. She'd held vigil at his bedside after that quidditch match, because she'd never been good at speaking her emotions—in a houseful of boys, there was never a chance to learn—she'd thought that her actions would speak louder than words, but he'd hardly even noticed her then, she hadn't thought.  
What sorts of people did he notice? she'd asked herself then, and, again, she'd thought she'd found an answer.  
Perhaps, she'd been wrong. Perhaps, she'd been right. He'd noticed her, after all, but he'd never expressed it. Now, she realised that she was the one who should have made overtures...somehow, or borne through that frustration that came of having any sort of conversation with him long. She'd goaded him into a fight just the once, back before the beginning of the year, and he hadn't liked that.  
This whole ordeal was trial and error. But, Luna was so estranged from normal conceptions of reality. Perhaps, Ginny could ask her how Harry's mind worked?  
A hopeless cause. Even Hermione didn't understand him.  
But she could figure this out! She could figure out how to help him (he needed help this year; everyone knew the Triwizard Tournament was a deathcourse!). She'd just have to rethink things, and see how he got on with Luna.  
Note to self: romance novels were not good guides for real life romance.


	90. The Omnivident Map

**Chapter Ninety: The Omnivident Map**

Ginny might have turned him down for the Ball, but at least he had a date. And Luna was a very nice, interesting person, with all manner of interesting ideas. There was much he could learn from her. He was still disappointed, of course, but he could make the best of it. He complained a bit to Mother, and then was fine. He was far too busy trying to prepare for how to share his secret with Sirius and Remus. He hadn't made any progress with the egg, either, but as he couldn't bring it into his dreamscape, it was difficult to confer with Mother. He could only describe what he'd heard, which was less than helpful.

The second Hogsmeade weekend came, about a week before Christmas. Hogsmeade was packed with students going shopping for the holidays, as so many people were staying over the Break. Harry decided to stay at Hogwarts to pack in preparation for heading to Sirius's house, which Sirius, Remus, and, surprisingly, Mrs. Weasley had been working on making safe for human habitation. And he'd thought that hyperbole until he saw the place.

Mrs. Weasley's occasional appearances there made it easier to justify inviting Ron over. Hermione, unfortunately, would be staying at Hogwarts, but she'd invested in enough floo powder to at least drop in on them once a day. She refused to tell Harry whom she was going to the Ball with. Harry was almost certain that it was Ron, but neither of them would tell him, or even say something that would let him figure it out by lie-detection. He suspected that Ron had clued her in on this, which was completely unfair.

And speaking of big secrets….

He knew that he did better when he didn't bother trying to plan for things, which didn't stop him from trying to plan for things. That was probably just human nature in play. But, in all seriousness, how _did_ you lead into talking about such a thing? It was hardly a subject of casual conversation, and the entire affair was so twisted and convoluted… there were so many places where Sirius might not believe him…but then, he'd listened before; he'd listened to the exploits of Harry's first two years, and he hadn't judged or scoffed. And this would help to put those into context, would help to explain them.

He considered bringing the Foe-Glass, but decided against it; there was no reason to expect to be attacked at Sirius's childhood home, but moving it might make the Glass forget whom it was keeping watch for. He left it, but, as a matter of course, brought the invisibility cloak, and was loath to part with the Map.

The Map. He hadn't looked at it in quite some time—he'd had other thoughts on his mind. The Map knew all the secret places of Hogwarts, bar one or two secrets too deep even for it (literally, in the case of the Chamber of Secrets). He couldn't leave it behind for security reasons, either.

Again, even though the Map was blank for the moment, he stared at it, thinking of the four Marauders—his dad among them—wandering these halls. They'd slept in the same dorm that he now did. This Map was their legacy, bequeathed to its rightful heir, unknowingly, by Fred and George. He would have to find some way to repay them (perhaps literally, if he could get away with it) for their kindness.

"_I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_," he said, and tapped the parchment. Bright green lines spread across it, revealing a Hogwarts emptying of students. Some had left right after midterms. Others, those whose commute would take less time, remained, packing, until whatever arrangements they had made came through for them.

And Rita Skeeter was in the trophy room. He blinked, staring at the dot labeled "Rita Skeeter" for a few more seconds, just to be sure, and then, with a sigh, set aside his trunk, which was almost packed, anyway; he had few possessions of his own, not that that troubled him overmuch. As long as he was still splitting his time between Hogwarts and Number Four, he'd just keep wearing Dudley's castoffs. Might as well: no one else would ever want them. It was better than them being thrown away. Though, he might use whatever magic his subconscious had used in that one dream to make them fit him better.

He pursued such thoughts with a sort of dutiful apathy, using the Map to avoid being noticed. Hermione had already left to go visit her parents, which suggested that hers was a longer commute than his. If she'd still been here, he would have sought her out for her assistance in the coming confrontation. But she wasn't. And there was no way he was bringing Ron.

To his surprise, the trophy room was, to all sight and sound, completely empty. But the Map persisted in believing that someone named "Rita Skeeter" was there. He made sure the dot was far enough away not to hear what he said, before tapping the Map, and whispering, "_Mischief managed_". He grinned a bit to himself as the ink immediately blinked out.

He closed his eyes, and opened his seventh sense. Sure enough, there was someone else in the room with him, although her whereabouts were surprisingly difficult to pinpoint. She was wrapt in a sort of magic that he thought he should recognise. It took all of his self-control not to pull on one of the threads sticking out from around her. He poked at it, instead, with a length of magic shaped like a rod. Had she known how to use her seventh sense (had she had one?) she would have been able to follow it back to him.

But, she didn't. Instead, she suddenly grew out of the shape of an insect that had been hovering in the air, dismissed by Harry as unimportant. He stared. Oh.

"Ouch!" she cried, which was probably a reasonable response. "I suppose I've been flying for longer than I thought, getting sore all over. How fascinating, though. It's really here, just as Potter said it was."

He had a choice to make, here. He could confront Skeeter, and let her know that he knew her secret—which would be very useful if she were doing anything that he didn't want her to, or if there were something he wished her to do, but she refused. Blackmail, like what the Twins were trying to use on Bagman. Only, in their case, Sirius was offering them legal advice and monetary assistance with their joke shop, so, no, nothing like that situation. Harry was alone in this.

His other option, of course, was to slip away, quietly, before she could realise that he was aware of her presence. Before she knew that she'd been seen. Ideally, taking a picture of her mid-transformation, or otherwise acquiring usable proof that she was an animagus—because he knew that magic, now, and it was hard to misidentify something as straightforward as an animagus changing back to human form.

If he chose to slip away, then _he_ could know her big secret, and allow for it, in all future endeavours, with her none the wiser. He could warn Hermione, and they could work together to keep Skeeter out of important secrets. Hermione might have even more ideas for what to do.

Harry threw on the invisibility cloak, and left Rita Skeeter leaning up against a display case, none the wiser.

* * *

He'd wondered about the Map when it had first come into his possession; now, he returned to the questions all over again, knowing what he now knew about the identities of its creators. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, his own dad, and…the _traitor_. The one whose form was continuing to solidify in his Foe-Glass. All of them gryffindors, although Pettigrew was unworthy of his house. He could think of no particular reason that they would use a Slytherin colour for their map. Of course, there was always the chance that they'd used those colours so that people _would_ assume that it was made by slytherins…a sort of cover for them. He decided that that was probably it.

The Map had so many layers to it—ridiculously complex wizarding magic, proof that it could be used and stacked in complicated arrangements. There were a number of disciplines in it—runes, charms, even transfiguration and potions. They'd put more work and time and energy into this casual project of theirs than some people put into their _careers_. It was one of those things that he was tempted not to use his seventh sense to examine. But he was trying to talk himself out of it.

Yes, the Map might be a work of art—singular, in the same way that the Room of Requirement was singular, or the Goblet of Fire, but it was _different_. His dad had had a hand in making it. Didn't understanding the Map better mean that he'd understand his _dad_ better? Right now, all he had were stories. But surely…such a lengthy task as making the Map must have been…he'd have left an imprint of his own on the Map. The way that battles were said to leave their marks on the land—so much emotion, so many memories. Didn't he owe it to his dad to look?

Someone might well say to him: if you wish to understand your dad better, why not ask Sirius and Remus? They're right downstairs. Why sequester yourself in the guest room you're sharing with your brother, and sit up here, staring at the Map?

Perhaps, it was symptomatic of life at Grimmauld Place. Aurors and professional house cleaners had come into the house, long before Sirius had troubled himself with coming to it, scouring the house from top to bottom, helping to clear out the infestations of any number of household pests that Harry had never heard of. They'd done their best; the House was the sort of project that would take years to clear out, again. Sirius had a point: Kreacher wasn't cleaning at all. He seemed, instead, devoted to the idea of preventing Sirius from throwing out anything that had belonged to Sirius's parents—and family heirlooms.

Mrs. Weasley and Remus tried, of course, but they were not professionals—although Mrs. Weasley, as a housewife, was the next best thing to one. She alternated between fussing over Sirius, urging him to return to St. Mungo's for a checkup, and waging war on the house. During these work hours, Sirius worked just as hard as anyone else in making the house presentable, but most of the important things were out of his depth.

This was a period of rest, before Sirius, who flat out refused to let Harry cook, after what he'd seen at the Dursleys, began making dinner. He didn't trust Kreacher to do this, and Harry didn't trust Ron (anyway, Ron was only slightly older than he was, right? Regardless of how you calculated things).

Harry had only been here a couple of days, but he could already name at least five good reasons Sirius could have for hating it, off the top of his head. It had the sort of unapproachable melancholy air usually reserved for gothic cathedrals. Kreacher took every opportunity he got to goad Sirius, or to insult him. The portrait of his dear old Mother, who was one of those people who would never be worthy of a softer term, hung behind curtains in the foyer. He had enough bitter memories of the place, anyway, to last a lifetime; it was the Number Four of Sirius's childhood. And, of course, it was a nasty, dangerous place that Harry was not entirely sure was safe for human habitation.

It had a familiar, brooding feel to it. Harry realised with dawning horror that this was one of the places Mother had spoken of, long, long ago—a place so poisoned that you mustn't use its magic, because it would twist and warp you into something as sinister and evil as it was, itself. If he'd ever sought for the palace underbelly, he thought it would have _felt_ as this house _felt_. It was a dementor of a house.

What a horrid thought. But…_how_ did it feel this familiar? Where had he encountered such a place before? _Had_ he stumbled upon the palace underbelly—and then never remembered it? The fact that he couldn't place the similarity suggested that it belonged in the gap in his memory, and that made him…antsy. Brooding. And that, in turn, had pulled him up here, where no one could spy on him, bar that empty portrait frame. He'd never seen an empty portrait frame, which suggested that the image that had been painted upon it had somehow been destroyed—but the spirit remained. A suitably gloomy thought for this old house.

He was restless. He felt like pacing. Instead, he forced himself to stay utterly still, and stare at the Marauder's Map, examining what he could of its myriad layers without opening his seventh sense. But he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. This was the sort of place that made anyone twitchy and paranoid. For someone who was already as fragmented and unpredictable as Harry, prone to seeing dangers everywhere, it kept him on high alert. He was liable to open his seventh sense on reflex the next time someone entered the room unannounced. And then, perhaps, he'd _accidentally_ look at the Map.

Of course, he didn't anticipate being interrupted—not with Ron giving him his space, almost as if reading his mind, and heading off Mrs. Weasley, who, last Harry had checked, had been insisting upon dragging Moody into the house to examine some drawer in the dressing room. She also was using Lockhart's (outdated to the extent it was ever valid) guide to household pests to try to fight said pests off, which might, come to think of it, be what was taking so long to complete the job. Sirius had been told of Lockhart's attempts to wipe Ron's and Harry's memories at the end of second year, and developed a personal grudge against him, even though he was dead. Most arguments concerning the house eventually cycled back to Lockhart the Fraud.

Poor Ron. Perhaps, he should go down and ensure that neither his Mum, nor Harry's dogfather (what else could you call Sirius?) had ripped him apart. Of course, he did have some diplomatic training to fall back on…and it wasn't as if he were human, as they were.

Harry shrugged, and went back to staring at the Map. Right now, it wasn't activated.

"I wonder what you would tell me of my dad, if you could speak," he said to the Map, as he stared at it. Then, recoiled, as words appeared on the paper. That was not something he'd known to expect. Couldn't someone have warned him? I mean, all he'd done was hold the Map and speak to it. He'd thought it only recognised two commands, but….

"_Specify subject of query_," said Remus's neat cursive. Harry stared at the paper, unsure how to respond. Whether to respond. Then, he shook his head, and smiled. A prank built into the Map, of course. Something to the effect of muggle 'Mad-Libs'. He was intrigued, nonetheless. But he wondered what manner of protections the Map might have against the libel of a familiar name. Probably none—that would be too suspicious, according to the Slytherin-is-green scapegoat theory.

"James Potter," he said, in a soft, soft voice, knowing that the portrait might be listening in. Unfortunately, there was no other place in the house unoccupied enough to use. There were _things_ lurking throughout, and there was always Kreacher.

_Never heard of him_, said a slanted hand of thin, spidery writing. The response made sense, and made Harry, at long last, smile. A sort of defence mechanism, he supposed.

_Mr. Prongs reports that he has complete ignorance of the individual named_, said a second line, appearing shortly after the first. Harry's heart skipped a beat. He stared at the first line of writing, wishing that he had a camera, or some way of preserving it for posterity. His _dad_ had denied ever having heard of _himself_. Somehow, that was even better. And the second response…that was from Sirius.

_Mr. Padfoot, however, begs to differ. Mr. Padfoot submits his written request of proof of identity or parentage._

_Mr. Moony reserves judgement until the matter is decided._

_Cool! You're James's son? What's your name?_ asked Mr. Wormtail. His messy handwriting was smudged, and he was evidently so eager to hear what Harry had to say that he'd forgotten to throw his nickname in there. Harry glared at the line, as if to burn it out of existence.

But this…this was not what he had expected. The Map…it seemed to be more than a mere imprint. He hated to compare it to Riddle's diary, but there suddenly seemed a sort of sentience to it. But it couldn't be…whatever Riddle's diary had been. Could it? Could you share such a vessel? And whatever had made the diary what it was was dark magic. His dad and Sirius wouldn't have gone for that, surely?

This magic…it was far more complex than he'd previously realised. Was it dangerous? Surely not. But, perhaps he'd tripped a defensive mechanism. There were plenty of nasty hexes that weren't dark magic. He should tread more cautiously, now. He sighed, and opened his seventh sense…just a little. He told himself that it was for his own safety, despite the startling realisation that, although he had no justification for it, he fully assumed that Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs would never deliberately hurt him.

The Map had no concept of time. It didn't know that it was waiting for several minutes. It was like a book, that way.

"My name is Harry Potter," he said. "My mother is Lily Evans. My parents died when I was fifteen months old. I have no memory of them. But I do know the real names of all four of you. And I have my dad's old invisibility cloak. And I'm staying here, at Grimmauld Place, with Padfoot and Moony."

_Grimmauld Place?_ demanded Mr. Padfoot, his handwriting sloppier than usual in his haste. _Whyever would you be there?_

Harry ignored the response, and the way that nothing followed it. He thought he'd felt something…something that shouldn't have been there, nested deep within the embedded layers of the Map's magic.

_'Grimmauld Place? What is that?_ asked Mr. Moony. He might have been sincerely confused, both by Sirius's reaction, and by the name. But, perhaps most alarming, they almost seemed to be carrying on a conversation—the five of them. And that was impossible.

_You know about the cloak?_ Mr. Prongs wrote, next. He seemed to think that that was sufficient evidence, or perhaps, it was just that in addition to everything else, and it was all that he mentioned.

It occurred to Harry that, perhaps, the imprints, the impressions upon the Map, were not as complicated as the actual individual to whom they rightly belonged. But that realisation came from a corner of his mind that he was currently ignoring. He was too busy trying to chase down the familiar impossibility. It eluded him, with great skill, and he at last had to concede defeat. Perhaps he'd only imagined it.

_Mr. Wormtail would like to—_

"_Mischief managed_. Forget I said anything," Harry said, interrupting Mr. Wormtail's response, and he knew that the Map did forget, as it was wiped clean. He only felt a slight twinge of conscience. Far more pressing was a need to speak with Sirius and Remus about the strange nature of the Map.


	91. The Other Forgotten Time

**Chapter Ninety-One: The Other Forgotten Time**

"I need to talk to the two of you," Harry demanded, running into the kitchen, which Mrs. Weasley had vacated an unknown amount of time ago. Sirius and Remus both turned to face him, and he realised that he'd interrupted some sort of argument. As if he _cared_.

Remus relaxed in his chair, with his usual unflappable professor attitude, but Sirius came over, as if he would need to guide Harry to a chair, or something.

"Sure thing, kiddo," Sirius said. "Sit down. What's wrong? You look pale as death."

Sirius ignored Ron's glare with the sort of skill that only comes from practice. He must have expected it, then. Still, it was always impressive whenever anyone could withstand one of Ron's death glares, without cowering. It was an even greater feat to act so nonchalant about it all. Harry barely noticed, too worked up about the Map, surprised to find himself needing reassurance that it was not what it seemed to be.

"The Map," Harry said, folding his arms when Remus and Sirius exchanged a look that said, quite clearly, that they had no idea what he was talking about. He glanced over at the kitchen sink, where Ron had abandoned trying to look out the kitchen window, at Harry's recent distress, to come over to stand guard at the wall that was (coincidentally or deliberately) as far away as possible from Mrs. Black's portrait. His hearing was probably more sensitive than a human being's, too.

Harry took a deep breath, reminding himself of all of Hermione's calming exercises. "How did you make the Map?" he demanded, pulling it from his pocket, where he hadn't realised that he had stuffed it, and slamming it down on the table so hard that the table shook. Professor Lupin shot him a level, reproachful glance. Sirius did not seem to notice.

"It was a bit technical of a process, Harry," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Trade secrets, and all. Plus, I'm not sure any of us know _all_ of the spells that went into it, and—"

"I mean to say: How am I able to carry on a conversation with it, as if with actual people? Need I remind you that when I last encountered such an object, one with which you could hold a conversation, it was _Riddle's diary_?"

Remus looked puzzled, but Sirius took his meaning right away. Ron's eyes widened, and his gaze shifted from one to the next. He understood the significance. He knew about Riddle's diary; he could hardly have forgotten what it had done, or that it was some manner of dark magic.

"It isn't dark magic," Sirius said, voice very firm and deceptively calm. Harry knew that he was bristling at the mere implication that he, Sirius Black, falsely accused of being a Death Eater, bane of all things dark (except werewolves), might stoop so low.

"Then what is it?" Harry demanded, giving no ground, as if this were the most important battle he could ever fight. Ron moved to stand closer to him, as if sensing that this conversation might well head into dangerous waters…or to provide emotional support? Harry supposed that that was also a possibility.

If Harry wanted reassurance, he didn't find it. Sirius looked uncomfortable, shifting on his feet, and took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Harry. It's only an imprint of who we were then. Not _us_, more like a series of tape recordings."

Harry didn't know what he was talking about, but, most unfairly, Ron did.

"Like a VCR?" Harry tried. He had some experience with those. Sirius ran a hand through his enviably neat and tidy hair.

"Sure, let's go with that," he said. He turned to glance back at Remus, as if asking for backup.

"We'd love to tell you more about the spell," Remus said, with his usual kindly smile. "But we had help with that one."

Harry froze, reconsidered. His dad James, and Sirius, were the brightest students of their era. Everyone agreed on that. They were…prodigious. Of course, that didn't mean that they could do anything, but just _what_ sort of spell had this been, that they'd had to ask someone for help? _Could_ it be dark magic? If they hadn't cast the spell (or brewed the potions, or drawn the runes) themselves, how could they be sure?

"Then how do you know it _isn't_ dark magic?" he demanded, nothing appeased by this explanation. "Who was it helped you with this spell?"

Another glance between Sirius and Remus, who sighed, and put his head in his hands. It must have been bad. That crossed quite a few people off the list—they wouldn't have hesitated were it Dumbledore, or McGonagall, or his mum, or something. He knew to dismiss quite a few people as possibilities, even before Remus said,

"We can't tell you that, either, Harry," in a voice heavy with…regret? Grief? "He swore us to secrecy. I've never met anyone so paranoid in my life. But he wasn't a dark wizard, and he didn't use dark magic. He was a friend of ours. We know he didn't sabotage the Map."

"Well, what _can_ you tell me, then? You can't tell me his name, or where he comes from, I suppose, or what spell he used. I don't suppose you could tell me _why_ you can't tell me any of this?"

It was Sirius's turn for a regretful shake of his head. "Sorry, Harry. We made an unbreakable promise, under penalty of worse than death, not to talk about anything he'd said to those not already in the know."

Harry sort of thought that just mentioning him had already broken that promise, but if it were the sort that activated automatically—and most oaths were—then Sirius and Remus would have known. He and Remus would be suffering such a fate, now. Harry didn't want to put them in any danger, but… only a fool would make such a promise without providing a backdoor to talk _around_ the situation, as they now were. And Sirius, at the very least, was no fool. Nor, supposedly, was his dad, who would almost certainly have been involved, if Sirius and Remus both were. Remus Lupin, while not a shining star like Sirius, was not stupid, either.

"Well, wasn't _he_ thorough," he said, in a voice laden with false cheer. Sirius and Remus both started, and turned to glance at each other. Harry affected not to see them, but his mind noticed it. His _intuition_ noticed it. "You'd have to be extremely paranoid to think of all _that_."

Harry's mind reversed its rotation, following a very strange train of thought. Suppose he _hadn't_ been mistaken, earlier. Could it be…? No, that was surely too ridiculous, even for his life…right?

Nothing was too ridiculous for his life. He took a seat, thinking that he'd probably need the support for the coming confrontation, whatever it turned out to be. Sirius took this as his cue to sit back down between Harry and Remus. Ron, of course, remained exactly as he was. He glanced at Ron, who completely missed it. He was thinking over what they'd said.

As was Harry. But he was going over other memories, too. He remembered that day, practicing the Patronus Charm, when he'd asked why Remus was behaving so peculiarly, and been told…what was it? "_Nothing. You just reminded me of someone, just now. A ghost, someone I knew in my school days. No one you would know._" Something to that effect.

He'd always assumed that Remus had been talking about his dad…that mention of ghosts…but then, later, he'd thought Remus was comparing him to Sirius. What if he weren't?

What if Remus were wrong? There were, after all, things about Harry that Sirius and Remus didn't know…things he'd been meaning to share, anyway.

He stared down at the piece of parchment on the table, thinking that perhaps it had all the answers. What if he tried to flood out whatever he'd thought he'd sensed before, fill the map with the _other_ kind of magic? But no, suppose that ruined it? He'd have to try to talk sense into these two. And if his newest theory were true…he knew just the way. Of course, if he were wrong, then all he'd done was do exactly what he'd been planning to, anyway.

"That's a shame," Harry said. "I thought surely _I'd_ be the most paranoid person you'd ever met. With the exception of 'Professor' Moody."

He glanced at Ron to see if he'd taken his message, yet. Sighed, when he realised that he still hadn't.

"Well, I suppose I shall try to overlook that you are keeping such a big secret from me. I _suppose_ it is not directly pertinent to me. Although, _perhaps_…."

Ron finally looked over in his direction. Perhaps, his attention had been caught by that ellipsis.

"Harry, we do wish that we could tell you. We're not keeping secrets deliberately, kiddo. But, well, I've always been impulsive, and I suppose I drew everyone into the promise with me."

"You can't talk about it with anyone not already in the know," Harry mused, as if he didn't hear Sirius. "What if we _do_ already know?" he asked.

He could almost _feel_ Ron get it, even without turning to look. Call it "vibes", call it a _sixth_ sense—he didn't always have to look, to gauge the reactions of those he knew well. That came in useful in a conversation such as this one, where he was trying to speak to someone, and maintain eye contact, whilst having a private, silent conversation with someone else. In this case: Thor.

This could be fun, if not for Sirius and Remus's guilty-canine auras, now spiked with a sort of befuddled wariness, as if unsure whether Harry were bluffing or not. Well, neither was he.

"Tell me, Professor Lupin," he said to Remus. "The individual who helped you to make the Map—is he the same individual you said I reminded you of, back when we were practising the Patronus Charm?"

Remus hesitated. In order to avoid replying, he said, "I'm not your professor anymore, you know, Harry. You can call me 'Remus'."

"Ah! We're _friends_, then! Are you permitted to answer _that_ question, at least?" He leant forwards, towards them, as if sharing a secret already.

Remus and Sirius exchanged that twins-speaking-without-words glance that Harry had seen Fred-and-George use. He sensed an impending bout of twin-speak.

"Well—" began Sirius.

"I suppose I could answer your question. I don't _think_ it's a violation of our promise—"

"Don't bother," Harry said, waving a dismissive hand. "Your hesitation is answer enough." Sirius adopted his most indifferent attitude yet, tilting back his chair whilst holding onto the table for support. Remus seemed to suddenly find the wall very interesting, but his face was so tight Harry wondered if he could blink.

"And I suppose he must look a bit like me, too, or you wouldn't be so strongly reminded of him." He thought of the hairstyle he'd deliberately replicated as best he could, before Mother had shifted his bangs to hide the lightning-bolt scar. He still didn't know what to make of that particular symbol. Coincidence? Or a sign from whoever controlled men's fates?

He was not too deep in thought to fail to notice the renewed currents of unease coming from Remus and Sirius.

"Not very friendly of him, to leave you in such a predicament," he mused, leaning back in his own seat, straightening his posture, and deliberately not looking at either of them. "Quite selfish of him, if you think about it, to do all that just to…er, what, protect himself?"

"He was our _friend_," Remus protested, indignant, as Ron stared back and forth between the two parties in evident disbelief. He was broadcasting the question _what do you think you're doing?_ loud and clear. He would probably not be pleased by the answer, either.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harry," Sirius continued, his voice full of that familiar fake calm. Harry just smiled, which seemed to throw off everyone in the room, and said,

"Well, if you say so. I think he has a lot to answer for, personally, and not just for tying the two of you up, thus. Though, I have to admit I'm curious as to how you met him at all, being from two such different worlds, and all."

He'd built the tension in the room up until it was something that could be cut with a knife, or ladled out like soup. It was thick in the air. Time to abruptly shift tracks.

He thought he'd evidence enough—in what they refused to say, as much as in what they _did_ say—to give credibility to his theory. He wasn't liking this at all. He hated having gaps in his memory. He'd just have to derive whatever satisfaction he could from the inevitable explanation. This sort of thing couldn't be planned for.

"Well, alright. Ron and I have a secret of our own, you know, that we were going to share with you. Now is as good a time as any. Of course, we'd want to be sure that you could keep it secret… and we'd best make sure that no unwelcome visitors come spying on us. Call me _paranoid_, but I'd rather no one eavesdropped."

He closed his eyes, stuffing the Map back into his pocket, and opened his sixth sense, and his seventh, to be safe. It was possible for people to elude his notice, but with all four of them on the lookout, much less plausible. Not much escaped those prepared and trained for life and death combat. Not much eluded those who had had to live all their lives on edge, constantly on the lookout for threats, danger, prepare to run. Outcasts were better suited than most to seeing the unseen, the unnoticed. This was a house, not an open plain, a forest, or a catacomb. Once the area was secure, then, barring extreme extenuating circumstance, it was secure.

"Harry," said Ron, jarring him from his thoughts. That was a reproachful tone if ever Harry had heard one. He huffed, and folded his arms again.

"I said that Kreacher won't interrupt. In fact, no one can enter the room…and I've used every anti-eavesdropping spell I can think of," said Sirius, who seemed to think that he'd been excessive, if still motivated by the desire to show that he took Harry seriously, and to…_redeem_ himself. He had no idea of the magnitude of the secret Ron and Harry were about to share with them.

He reached for that part of him that would be better suited to this, and frowned. It wasn't the sort of thing that you could invoke yourself. He glanced at Ron, looked away.

"Don't forget the Rules of Invocation," he said, without looking back at him. Then, to the rest of the room, "Don't look so worried. I just had to make sure no one was hiding from you. My seventh sense isn't infallible, but it's better than nothing."

Sirius and Remus, who were back to their seats while Harry had been concentrating, just stared straight ahead. They didn't look at anyone. Sirius rubbed his arms as if to ward off a chill. He'd probably developed that mannerism in Azkaban, Harry thought, and scowled, briefly, at nothing in particular.

"This is a very big secret, so I'd like to swear you to secrecy, first. Don't tell anyone what we're about to tell you. I mean it. This is no trifling revelation."

"What, do you want us to make an Unbreakable Vow?" asked Sirius, sounding bored, in the way a teenager _will_ sound bored, just for spite.

Harry hesitated. He'd heard of those. They were nasty. And yet, part of him still wanted to say "yes". But…what if he _were_ the one who'd put them in this oath to begin with? He wanted to be better than whoever it was had bound them into complete silence, such a vow of silence that they would not even tell him. Just who did he want to be, anyway?

"No," he said, at last. "I trust the both of you, or I wouldn't be telling you this, anyway. I don't want to back you into a corner, if a situation arises wherein you had no choice but to reveal our secret—and there may be occasions in the future where, in your own discretion, it would advance the cause. Don't ask what cause. We will reach that, believe me, all in good time."

"This sounds like a long story," said Remus. He buried his head in his hands as if it had already reached its conclusion, but he couldn't know how devastating that turn would be, yet. Unless he were prescient? What electives had the Marauders taken, anyway?

Harry shook his head. "Well, tempting though it is to bind you all around with promise rope, I will instead _trust_ that you will use your discretion. Keep in mind that Dumbledore is not to know, even, and that Hermione, while she will someday, doubtless, be informed, is also in the dark."

He glanced at Ron, as if to tell him to hurry up with that, already. Then he blinked. Hermione was his friend, as well. And it was just as much his secret. Why not tell her, himself? But….

"Well, I'll give Ron another chance to explain his part of this, when we get there, but I think you need a bit of an overview, first. I'll just say that neither of us are quite who you think we are. That's all you need to know at the outset. If that. Stop me when this sounds familiar." He glanced at Ron, to see if he understood his cue. He was looking rather petulant at the reminder that his last explanation had failed. Oh, well. He'd come around.

"There are nine realms, of which Earth ('Middle Earth') is the centremost. These nine realms are under the governance and protection of Asgard (another of the nine realms) and its king, Odin. Travel to and from these realms is facilitated by the Rainbow Bridge—"

"The Bifrost," Thor interjected, and Harry glared at him.

"It's not your turn to confuse everyone, yet," he said. "I'd spend my time finding a less incomprehensible way of putting your tale, if I were you, and not making trivial comments."

He was probably being mean and ungrateful, again. But this was hard. He'd come to value Sirius and Remus, perhaps too much. What if…?

Now that he'd started, he had to see it through to the end. He took a deep breath.

"Asgard is ruled by a king, and it's a backwards world in many ways, but in that place, they've yet to realise the divide between magic and science that came about…during The Enlightenment?"

"It began with the Christianisation of Europe, and what they call 'The Dark Ages'," Thor said. "The Enlightenment only made the divergence more extreme."

That was an acceptable interruption. Harry let it pass. "Right. In any case, they have a powerful, different magic there, which works very differently from wizarding magic. And differently again from sorcery, but I digress."

"_Sorcery?_" Sirius mouthed, which made sense. He hadn't met Stephen, and sorcerers were quietly present, and rare. Stephen kept telling him that if he wanted to know about the history of sorcerers, he should visit the library at Kamar-Taj. He said he'd be able to arrange it with someone called "Wong". Until then, Harry was hardly qualified to talk about sorcery, considering all he had to go on were his own impressions and guesses. Besides, the magic wasn't the focus of this discussion, although it _was_ important to mention.

Ron was starting to fidget, which was a bad sign. "The king of Asgard is Odin All-Father, who is supposed to be omniscient. I'm not sure I believe that, but Ron will insist that it's true, so, no, Ron, there's no need to interrupt me for that."

He didn't bother looking, but he knew that Ron closed his mouth, and said nothing, no matter how many different objections he was tempted to make. He also suspected that Sirius and Remus had some experience with _someone_'s ability to do just as he was doing, and it kept them on a state of high alert. Sirius, in particular, would probably put things together rather quickly.

"The queen is Frigga, who is the greatest woman to have ever lived, by the way. Both of them have what would have to be considered magic, but they somehow aren't that well-known for it. Asgard looks down on magic-users, because it's a warrior culture. As I said: in some ways, backwards. It's true, Ron, but let's not have this argument, now."

Again, Ron kept silent rather than make protest, which was a good record. He must have learnt a good deal of restraint…somewhere.

"Then, there are the two princes. The elder of the two is Thor, the Crown Prince. He's well-known for being a bit reckless and brash, but with a strong heart, and, as he's 'Asgard's quintessential youth', he can afford to be a bit less macho than the rest of the society, which Stephen tells me is a good thing. Don't ask me who Stephen is. I'm sure you'll meet him later," he said, shooting Sirius a glare, sidelong, that shut him up instantaneously, as if he were very familiar with it. As if reacting to a habit, hard-engrained, untouched by time.

Hmm. Now _that_ was food for thought, now wasn't it?

"Really? You're telling me that none of this sounds familiar to you?"

"_Well_," Sirius began, seeming a bit thrown at suddenly being allowed to speak. "I might have come across it in research in the library, once…."

Harry leant forwards, not curious, but still wanting to know just what he'd say. "Really? What did they say? When I did the research, there was only one book that listed the royal family in the way I just delineated it."

"That wasn't the information I was looking for. I wasn't looking for information on a family tree, I was looking for—"

"Sirius!" Remus snapped, and Harry pouted. Those two were keeping on their toes.

"Then, you _have_ heard of it before! Why didn't you say something?" asked Harry, as if nothing had happened. Somehow, that did not allay their suspicions. He shrugged, and continued with the individual he'd been dreading mentioning.

"The youngest member of the royal family is the younger prince, Loki. The truth is, he comes from a different world again, and was adopted by the king and queen. You might have read that in one of your books." He couldn't keep a certain undercurrent of bitterness from his voice, in spite of it all—the situation, his many realisations, and his frequent reminders that, really, he was quite ungrateful of the privileged life he'd led. "I suppose that isn't any matter, though," he added on, with far less certainty.

"I should say it isn't!" Sirius said. "My whole family were dark wizards, the lot of them! I mean, Andy saw sense eventually, but my parents…. So, when I was sixteen, I ran away from home. Your grandparents took me in, treated me like I was their own. I was always welcome in the Potter household. _That's_ what family is."

Harry waved a hand in dismissal just to be irritating, and sensed that Thor was going to lose control of his temper.

"Sirius is right, little brother. Listen to him," said he, voice firm, but you could hear the edge in it. You could cut steel with a voice that sharp. The only way Harry could think of that seemed reasonable to react was to ignore him, entirely.

"Anyway, Loki is one of Asgard's greatest magic-users, which means that…well, almost no one there respects him. That's what comes of a society that values war, and thinks magic is pointless, I think. Anyway, that made him incredibly bitter and jaded—well, that's far from the only reason. Odin is such a kingly sort of person, all distant and cold, and Thor was so impulsive that he often dragged everyone around him into danger. Well, that was just asking for trouble.

"Thor's coronation is about twenty years from now. Only, it never quite came to pass, you know. He led an unauthorised invasion, and Loki wasn't able to talk Odin out of punishing him."

"Wait just a minute," said Sirius, who seemed to be keeping up better than Remus. "Why are we talking about things you say are in the future, as if they've _already happened_?"

"Did I mention that this story involves time travel?" Harry asked, cocking his head, and studying Sirius and Remus. "No? It must have slipped my mind."

"As it 'slipped your mind' to mention that Mother—"

"We can argue about that, later," Harry said. He quite liked cutting Thor off halfway through. It was just about the only perk that came of having to lead this conversation. "Ah, but where was I? Let's see: Odin sent Thor to Midgard—to Earth—stripped of his powers. If he could prove himself worthy of them, they'd return to him. If not…he'd probably die very quickly, because he had no idea how to live as a human. Why would he? Contact ceased between the two worlds, with the Christianisation of the Nordic peoples. But he proved himself worthy, and regained his powers, and then Loki found out he was adopted, and fell off the Rainbow Bridge—"

"The Bifrost," Thor corrected again.

"It's a bridge made of a rainbow. Don't make it sound more complicated than it is," Harry said, without looking. Any plan he would have made of this conversation would have had to account for the constant interruptions—and who could predict those? It was just as well that he was best at winging it.

"Well, Loki died on a far away planet, and was returned to life by a madman with delusions of altruism, who wants to wipe out half of the universe's population, who brainwashed him, and sent him to take over Midgard, but Thor, and Thor's new friends the Avengers, managed to stop him, and then he was arrested, and, I assume, sent to prison. Your turn, Ron."

Thor was obviously reeling at the sudden switch, which was just as well, because Remus and Sirius were still trying to catch up.

"No. Now, just wait just one second, here," Sirius said, his tone sharp in a way that it usually wasn't, when speaking with Harry. He sounded…angry. "How do you know all of this? Why should we believe you?"

"You doubt my word?" asked Harry, in his softest, most dangerous voice. Ron tensed, in the corner of his vision.

"You can't talk that way about our friends," Remus said, and then froze, seeming to realise that he'd messed up, somewhere, but not where.

"Damn it, Remus," said Sirius, head in his hands. Harry blinked. He hadn't expected _Remus_ to be the one to crack. In a way, however, it made sense.

"Oh? What's this? Your '_friends_'?" he repeated, the inclination of his head almost mocking. Thor shot him a sharp, reproachful glare, which he duly ignored.

"Now you've done it," said Sirius, to Remus, seeming not to hear Harry, which, in other circumstances, would have been galling. "You should—"

"But Loki said—" Remus began, and then caught up to himself. He looked as if he wanted to kick himself.

"Well, that answers _that_ question," Harry said. "I suppose it's just as well that Ron and I already knew."

He kept his voice as even as possible, and spread his hands wide. "I think you have nothing to worry about."

"But…how could you know?" asked Remus.

"Figured it out," said Harry, with a shrug. "If you've been listening, you'd know that you're not the only ones who know Loki."

Remus frowned, his brow crinkling together. "But how would you have met? He disappeared almost twenty years ago, and didn't keep in touch."

"Did you not say something about relationships requiring that you at least—?" Thor began.

"Oh, shut up," Harry said. "I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. You shouldn't be surprised by now."

As predicted, Sirius got it first. "You can't be saying—" he began, as Harry leveled a stare at him. He cut himself off, even though that stare was not a "shut up, now" glare.

"What?" asked Remus, registering that Sirius had figured something out, but not following _what_. He looked back and forth between Sirius, and Ron and Harry, trying to figure it out.

"Harry," Sirius said, firmly. "That's impossible. Tell me that I'm just misinterpreting what you're saying."

Harry rolled his eyes, because sometimes you just had to. "Come now, Sirius, you're smarter than that. I can give you a demonstration, if you need proof."

"Little brother," Thor tried again, and Sirius's gaze snapped to him. It was clear that, in Sirius's corner, at least, the world had stopped spinning. Almost, Harry pitied him.

"You…" Sirius began, and then trailed off, at a loss for words. He looked back and forth between Ron and Harry, rather ashen and shaking, as the night they'd first met. Harry waved a hand, as if saying hello.

"_What_, Sirius?" Remus demanded, again.

"Don't you—don't you _get_ it, Moony?" he asked, using the nickname that had long since been set on the shelf with other childish things. "Harry's saying that _he's_—that _he's_—"

Okay, it was probably time to take pity on him. This was kind of pathetic.

"…That _I_ am Loki, Prince of Asgard. Yes. And, yes, Ron is Thor, my older brother. The _how_ of that is a complicated thing that he has twice attempted to tell, and never yet succeeded. But we shall give him another chance."

Well, yes. Once Remus and Sirius had recovered, and remembered how to breathe.

"You're—"

He sighed, and waved a hand in a semicircle that passed before his eyes and continued, counterclockwise, right to left. The world changed around them, recreating a familiar image, of splendour, bright gold and jewel tones, piercing through the drab dreariness of Grimmauld Place, making its remnants of grandeur seem quaint and rustic. And it wasn't only the lay of the land that changed.

"Do _I_ perhaps look familiar to you?" asked Harry, only he wasn't Harry anymore, not with this illusion of a different form, a different life. He looked different, and, in such surroundings, the rest naturally followed. The Rules of Invocation prevailed.

Thor stared around in open wonder and wistful longing, and then glanced at Loki.

"Brother," he said. "You have made your point. Drop the illusion. I can see that it is taxing your strength."

"It is only an echo of Asgard," Loki said to Sirius and Remus. "Beautiful, is it not? None who see it fail to marvel. Consider yourselves privileged."

He could feel it taking its toll. He glanced around him, again, and then let the illusion fall. Such a widespread thing—he could sustain it for far less time. It was a good thing he was already seated.

_Show no weakness_.

"Do you believe me, now?" he asked, and there was little change in his voice, little in his bearing, for, unlike Asgard, those trappings of identity had staying power of their own. Sirius and Remus sat there, frozen.

"You—You're—"

Loki sighed. This could take some time, after all. At least they were all on the same page. For the most part.

"Well, perhaps you should explain your role in this, Thor, while they are too distracted to interrupt. I promise to minimise my own interruptions."


	92. Now That We're All on the Same Page

**Chapter Ninety-Two: Now That We're All on the Same Page**

Sirius and Remus, of course, would have none of this. They insisted that they needed further information, and time to process the entire thing, which, if you thought about it, how often did life give anyone opportunity to adjust before it threw further surprises in their faces? Had _Harry_ been given time to adjust that night, not even a year ago, not even last year, yet, when his life had been turned on its head?

But, most unfortunately for him, he was not in control of the narrative any longer, and Thor decided to pick now to be courteous. It was infuriating, but it appeared that the impending question-and-answer session would come first, and the two would get a period of adjustment denied their interlocutors.

Well, no one with any sense or experience said that life was fair. And he had considerably more patience, when he was busy being _Loki_, and not Harry Potter.

"You—you're really _him_," said Sirius, shaking his head in something like wonderment. "I don't _believe_ this."

"Yes, well, don't get _too_ comfortable. There is, after all, another me out there, as there is also a far more impulsive and reckless Thor. Do _not_ let your guard down, on that front."

"Our paths are not likely to cross," Thor insisted.

"You know, you're nothing like what I was expecting," Sirius mused, turning to him. "I mean, Loki _did_ talk a lot about you."

"Let me guess: he said that Thor was irresponsible, arrogant, conceited, and didn't appreciate that he was the centre of attention back home. And also, perhaps, that their father liked Thor much better, and… in general had nothing good to say about him," Loki said.

"Well…" said Remus, attempting to be diplomatic.

"I am sure that much of what he said was true, then," Thor said, sounding almost ashamed. "I am not proud of who I was, then."

"We did spend a lot of time complaining about our families," Sirius admitted. "What with how much time he had to spend in this awful house."

Loki sat up straight. "Ah. _That_ is why this house felt familiar. But this gap in my memory…I have no knowledge of the times you describe. As Thor has, it seems, decided to give you time to recover before continuing our absurd tale of time travel and apocalypses, perhaps you might answer some of _my_ questions."

"Fire away," Sirius said, in a cheerful voice. Remus edged back from the table, as if to flee the ensuing conversation. It occurred to Loki that Remus might not be proud of his behaviour, then. He was hardly prankster material, now, and the Marauders had been incorrigible.

Loki leant forwards. "How did we meet, then?"

That was something he couldn't put together. He had no memory of it occurring, but, as he now recognised, the effects of their meeting—a myriad tiny things—lingered in his subconscious, influencing his own actions. That feeling of camaraderie that had led him to be rather less polite to Professor Lupin than he was to all the other professors; his immediate impression that he could trust Sirius Black, from when they'd first met; the déjà vu when he'd first arrived at the now derelict Grimmauld Place. How much time had he spent here, for it to seem familiar? How much time had he spent with them, to develop a lasting friendship that bled through into this life? How had they met _at all_, when no one back home visited this world, and the inhabitants of Midgard scarcely had the capacity to visit on their own? It couldn't have been a World-Gate; he'd yet to encounter one in the Wizarding World, and the presence of one leading to the Wizarding World back home would have had _obvious_ effects here.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, as if they'd fervently wished he'd asked something else. _Now_, his curiosity was piqued, if it hadn't been before.

"Well…" Sirius began. "You know, your dad and I were…a bit _precocious_—"

"—obscenely gifted and brilliant, more like—" Remus interrupted, with a strange sort of wistful despair.

"—and we were always looking for ways to test our limits. The Black library is full of forbidden knowledge, and rare texts, which were fodder for some of our better ideas—and some of our worse ones.

"From the summer that I first was sorted into gryffindor, my 'family' made my life a living hell every time I returned home, and when they weren't looking down on me and implying that they'd have been better off if I'd never been born, they ignored me. Kreacher didn't feed me; I had to get my own food, somehow. I did my homework apart from everyone else, and didn't mind at all, wishing that I could have been born to a family like the Potters.

"But I didn't run away, because… well, at first it was because I didn't think I was self-sufficient enough to last on my own, but I had to do that anyway. But I was trying to minimise the effect their politics had on my little brother, Regulus. Not that it worked; he joined the Death Eaters. I heard him talking about the side he'd chosen back when he was only thirteen, and… I guess I sort of snapped. I was trapped, all alone in this house, with nothing but my family's hatred, and ire, and Kreacher's jeers. It's a horrible enough house when you _don't_ know its secrets."

He glanced around the room with haunted eyes, ashen and shaking, looking wan and worn, and twenty years older than he was. He shivered, and swallowed, hard. There was a moment when no one said anything, because what _could_ be said, to such a statement? And then, incredibly, Sirius gave a small, beleaguered laugh, and continued.

"The only good thing about it was that I had access to the library, to research whatever I desired. And, as a resident of Grimmauld Place, I could reveal its location, which would otherwise have remained hidden, to my friends. I lived for the days when they paid me visits, because I knew my parents would restrain themselves, somewhat, around them. After all, your dad, James, was a pureblood. That made him worth noticing. And _Pettigrew_," he spat the name.

"It might have been the only favour that rat did for me, the only thing I have to be grateful to him for. And, as it was at Hogwarts, where we would later keep Moony company on nights of the full moon, my friends stood by me whilst I was imprisoned here. We researched things together in the Black library, and pooled our ideas for pranks for the coming year. Those were the best days."

His faraway gaze suggested that he was focusing on the better days, instead of whatever horrid memories still walked these halls as his companion. _Progress_, noted some corner of Loki's mind, the one tackling Sirius's recovery. _Insufficient, but progress._

But mostly, he was listening to the tale, waiting with patience for it to come to its point. Thor was shifting and fidgeting, and clearly considering the merits of returning to try to see out the grime-covered window.

"My parents, understand, were diehard Christians, for all their fanaticism about purebloodedness and superiority that you would think would go against the message of equality, goodwill towards men, what-have-you. They weren't churchgoers—there were too many _muggles_ there, but they'd go to Easter and Christmas Eve Mass, to make an impression. I hated it.

"James had a lot more freedom. He'd come over here, some days, to hang out, but his parents never tried to shoehorn him into their own belief-system. But all that time in the library…that was where I first encountered _mention_ of older gods. I suppose I should have realised they existed, or that people had even worshipped other gods, before, but my parents were very exclusivist, and closed as many doors to different ideas as they could, for us. It was like a breath of fresh air.

"I suppose I gathered the thoughts together in my mind, paying attention without _knowing_ I was paying attention, gathering data, noting similarities and commonalities and the like, building my own theories. I suppose I didn't consciously realise that I was doing it, but, when I pulled down that old _Enkyklopaidia Theon Palaiteron_, I was looking for a God of _Mischief_, even then. I assumed that anyone I would find would be much the same as any other. And there were gods for everything else—why _not_ mischief? Incorrigible pranksters that we Marauders were, I was sure we'd hit it off with a god devoted to such with ease. I know, that sounds incredibly foolish."

Loki shrugged. "You must have met with _some_ success," he said. "Although your tale has yet to address my question."

Sirius gave a sort of wistful smile. A glance at Remus showed that, in fact, all of the tale thus far was news to him, or he wouldn't have been listening with an avid focus, even if his brow was furrowed, perhaps in confusion, perhaps in concern for Sirius's treatment by his family, which sounded about as pleasant as the Dursleys, if you could judge such by only oblique references.

Thor frowned and tapped his feet, but, thus far, had yet to interrupt. He probably wanted to know as much as Loki did. At least _he_ had good cause not to know.

"This encyclopaedia being what it was, or being as old as it was, it had nothing about the gods of the Americas, or African (except for Egypt) or Asian ones, even. It was focused squarely on Europe. It had been written in Latin, but, as a pureblood, I had been trained to read Latin before my family had decided I was unworthy of further instruction. The introduction to the book spoke of the gods as if they'd had interactions with human beings—as if they still _did_ interact with human beings, when the book had been written. It served to reinforce a conviction I wasn't even aware of, yet. Then, I came across…_your_ name, and I thought, 'aha!'"

That ellipsis, there, was probably to be expected, but Loki scowled, nonetheless.

"Hey, hey, go easy on me! I'm still getting used to all this! Your presence _does_ seem to send the world into a sort of localised chaos, doesn't it?" He shook his head, but his smile was full of affection.

Loki had no background to know how to respond. He stared at the table, unable to meet Sirius's gaze. Thor decided this was a good time to take a seat next to him, as if to provide moral support. Loki considered snapping at him, telling him that he was _fine_, and would Thor stop his senseless worrying, already? Instead, he rested his head on his hands, and stared off at the wall, listening intently.

"Well, with the knowledge that there _was_ such a god, I decided on a very stupid plan of action, that could, in retrospect, have easily backfired. I think you probably remember that night, when we sort-of met for the first time and I said that being smart just meant that you were the more liable to make some spectacularly stupid decisions, because you don't see the dangers of your own plans. I was so used to being able to think my way out of anything, to get _away with_ everything. To being able to _do_ anything. Your dad and I—we had so much success, even with difficult spells. We had what we thought was an intuitive knowledge of magic. Of course, that was before _someone_ rearranged the way we thought about magic…as well as most everything else."

He didn't bother glancing at Loki to see if he'd made his meaning plain: even Thor got it. Remus gave a weak sort of smile, shaking his head.

"I should have done more to stop you two from getting into so much trouble—I was a prefect in fifth year; Dumbledore trusted me to use that authority to—"

"He just chose you because you were the least likely to make trouble of the four of us," Sirius said. "Anyway, I took Ancient Runes because it was an elective that sounded interesting and versatile, which it is, by the way; I don't know why you're taking Divination and Care of Magical Creatures."

"It is difficult to live all of your life on Asgard and not come away with _some_ knowledge of runes. Arithmancy is a boring, logic-bound discipline, and I was raised by muggles, if you have forgotten," Loki said, ticking the items off with his fingers, in what he couldn't help noting was a very human gesture. "What remains to me, then, if not those two classes? But there is more to it than that. I wished to know how it was that humans knew more about _me_ than I knew of myself. That was why I chose Divination. Thor's motives remain mystery—"

"I…heard of beings known as the Norns, from 'Norse Mythology', and wished to know if they were real, and what prophecies might exist concerning our world. Furthermore, Stephen said something about you and something called 'Ragnarök', when first we met."

Sirius suddenly understood why Loki was always silencing Thor with death glares. He wished he could do the same, but suspected that intimidating a god was far outside his abilities.

Loki paled, and shifted his chair, leaning away from Thor. "Ah. _That_," he said.

Remus inhaled sharply. "You've heard of it."

"I encountered it when researching Norse Mythology myself, before I knew. During that long period of time when I was recovering my memories, in the _year_ after my tenth birthday. It mentioned an older sister, about whom I have heard no mention: Hela or Hel, a goddess of Death or the Underworld. However, as I also heard nothing concerning adoption…." The rest of his sentence rested implicit. He trusted that his meaning was clear.

"Loki," Thor began, his voice pitched lower, in warning.

"Please continue," Loki said, in quite a different voice. It was such an abrupt shift in demeanour that everyone in the table knew that it was fake. Sirius glanced at him in evident concern, and then looked away, seeming to believe that the best choice was just to continue his tale.

"Well, I started researching all that I could find about old arrays and summoning magic, the sort of stuff that no one has used in centuries—it's outdated and unreliable, not to mention extremely dangerous. But I was so sure that, between James and me, we could find a way to stabilise the array so that it wouldn't siphon off our lifeforce, or create some sort of obscene bond between caster and summoned.

"Most of the arrays had been highly edited, names crossed out, ingredients changed, the works. A lot of the copies we had were Christianised, talking about demons and monsters, but I thought… well, I remembered something I'd once heard, that when Christianity spread across Europe, the Christians thought it easier just to slap Christian names and titles onto existing gods, changing them superficially into angels and saints, so _maybe_…."

He shook his head, as if just now realising how stupid the entire affair was, which couldn't be the case, as he'd led into the tale with that admission.

Remus, by contrast, was staring at him in horror. "You didn't think it through _at all_, then?"

Sirius sighed, and buried his head in the crook of his elbow. "I know, I know! It was stupid. It could have gone very, very wrong, but I came up with my _own_ array, and I had James check it over…he was good at that, I was so sure that between the two of us, we'd catch any _dangerous_ issues."

"A _summoning_ circle?" Loki demanded. "Do you mean to tell me that you used one of those circles…the ones they use in _movies_, to call me into this world?"

…He didn't even know whether he ought to be offended or amused. The latter was doing its best to win out.

Remus and Sirius refused to meet his gaze.

"It took me a great deal of time just to figure out how to undo some of the basic protections set into arrays at the start—one of the first things they have you do, usually, is close the circle, so that nothing can exit it. If you break that circle, the being inside is freed, but I thought that putting a god in a circle would just be…wrong. The sort of disrespect he wouldn't tolerate—I was raised Christian, after all—and then he'd blast us to smithereens, because there was no way that a spell circle could hold him."

Loki cocked his head, considering the thought. A spell circle could almost certainly hold him _now_, but _then_? Was it arrogance to say that he quite agreed with Sirius, that he could almost certainly have broken the circle?

"You used a _summoning circle_," he said, shaking his head. "And…what?"

He tried to put together what he remembered of his most recent time on Midgard, which was not at all good, with being summoned or bound by humans. The result would not be pretty.

Sirius didn't look at him. "We were _not_ instant-besties," he said, a bit of sarcasm slipping into his voice. "We were all there, because there were four of us, and there are four elements, and four cardinal directions. It made it easier to call the quarters, and all that. I don't think you liked _any_ of us, but you seemed relieved not to be wherever it was you came from.

"You started off by saying something like, 'Who are you, and how dare you presume to summon _me_?' which was when I thought I'd made a very dangerous mistake. I suppose I assumed you'd be all mirth and cheer, and a constant bundle of fun, not all…broody. It made you seem…more of an actual person, with feelings and all that. Less of an idea. Realer. I kind of felt…bad, for calling you away from home, until you said, 'Well, if nothing else, you have given me something else to think of than the coming Coronation. I suppose they would not notice my absence, providing I am not away for more than two or three years.' And you sounded so bitter and hurt, that I… I thought…I don't even know what I thought. I thought that, maybe, independent of anything else, that we could _help_ you. That we weren't so different, after all."

Loki said nothing. He was looking at the table, now. He could remember how it was, to be that bitter, and jealous, and _hurt_.

Thor's hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned. Thor looked wretched and guilty, as if he were about to start crying. "Don't you _dare_ start crying, Thor," Loki said. "I suppose you might make the true statement that you overlooked me in the past, but you are here _now_, when I least expected to find you. You gave up _everything_ for me. I think that has rather more weight. This lies in the past; treat it as such."

He did not, of course, look at Thor when he said this. What was the point?

Sirius quirked an eyebrow, and shook his head.

"You two have a more screwed-up dynamic than me and _my_ little brother," he said. Despite being a former professor, Remus did not correct his grammar in that sentence. He was, after all, the "cool" professor.

"Never mind that; what happened then?" Loki demanded, and Sirius hesitated.

"Well," he said, at last. "We were all a bit…intimidated by you, you know, especially with that armour that you were wearing a few minutes ago on."

"Only an illusion," he said, careful not to let any sort of wistfulness or regret creep into his tone. He had the sense that he might not have been quite successful, to judge by the way Sirius's eyes narrowed, just a bit. Although, that might also be because he'd interrupted. (Hey, he'd told _Thor_ he'd try to minimise his interruptions, and not _Sirius_.)

"Well, the four of us were Marauders, and true gryffindors, for the most part. And since this was _my_ house—or, at least, since _I_ lived here, it fell to me to introduce us. I sort of wish I'd had the nerve to sneak the materials we'd need out to your dad's place—" he shook his head, clearly a bit disoriented at trying to keep two identities straight. "Man, this is weird. But, anyway, here we were, in the most obscure corner I could find of this house—I was sure no one in my family was going to interrupt any time soon, but I realised that I didn't know how long you'd be here, or anything, and it felt kind of silly, wondering how you went about hiding a god…but then, we hadn't got any confirmation of your identity or anything. That's why I introduced us. Took all my gryffindor courage, though," he added, with a regretful shake of his head.

"You made a good choice," Loki murmured. "I would have respected your courage. Daring and courage are greatly valued back home."

"Don't go tacking on '_show no weakness_', alright?" Sirius said. "I get it, already. What, is that the royal family's motto?"

Loki looked over at Thor, just a glance, and turned back to Sirius. "I suppose you might say that."

"Well, I introduced us, and you, who I suppose are inevitably quick on the uptake, seemed to hear the unspoken cue, and you said, 'I am Loki Odinsson, Prince of Asgard. Why have you called me hither?' in the most imperious voice I've heard from anyone, _including_ my parents, and before then, they were my marker for that.

"Anyway, we told you about the Map—what else were we going to do?—and you sort of smiled, and said, 'Well, I _suppose_ I might remain here to assist you with that task', which was never going to be over and done with quickly. I sort of realised, then, that we were in this for the long haul—or rather, that _I_ was. At least you seemed to have some sort of sense of the lay of the land. We had a preliminary planning session, in which you made it quite clear that you weren't impressed with any of us, and then, at the end, you disappeared.

"When I think back on it, I think you probably spied on me quite a bit—perhaps to figure me out. That's pretty creepy, by the way. All I know is that you were always almost impossible to find. I paid attention to my intuition—what muggles call a 'sixth sense', on the lookout for times when the room seemed to be empty, but I thought I was being watched.

"I just sort of…talked about my family, about how much I hated my parents' pureblood politics, and how sure I was that Regulus was headed down the wrong road…come to think of it, I've never told _you_ much about my family, have I? I mean…well, you know what I mean. The point is, I talked to you a lot about how much my family sucked, whenever I thought you were around. And I was given the task by my _friends_—" he glared at Remus, who looked down at the table with his most sheepish expression, "—of finding you whenever we were going to work on the Map. And I sort of learnt how to find you—you spent most of your time sulking in one particular room. But as time went on, you spent more of it researching. I'm pretty sure wizarding magic fascinated you."

Loki's eyes narrowed at the blatant smugness in Sirius's smirk, but he said nothing.

"You were smart enough not to show yourself to anyone in my family—but as time went on, if I started talking to you in an empty room, and you were _there_—and I was usually right, later on—you'd show yourself. You started talking to me about _your_ family, and I thought I got a pretty good impression of its dynamics, and how screwed up Asgard is. I wished that you would just…stay here.

"But you stayed, even after we finished that Map. Remus had taken it into his head that you needed to learn how to speak like a human being, which was sort of our payment to you—not a fair exchange, but you didn't seem to mind, by the time we finally worked up enough courage to bring it up."

Remus was looking at the table, and saying nothing. His face was very red.

"Anyway, I think, more than anyone else, you and I became sort-of friends. When I ran away from home, you came with me. I don't think you'd left the house before. But that was a year after. In the meantime, someone—I don't remember who—made the mistake of mentioning the war, all about what was going on with Voldemort, and that. You offered to teach us how to fight, and we made the mistake of accepting—I don't think my shoulder has ever fully recovered, thank you."

He glared at Loki, who grinned in return. Sirius laughed, and, for once, there was no bitter rancour behind it. Nostalgia was kind to him.

"You taught us other things, too—I don't know what all. _I_ wanted to know how to use what you called your 'seventh sense', which you just _had_ to tell me I might not even have. I don't know what anyone else asked for, though. I suppose I'll never know what _Wormtail_ or your dad asked for."

"I wanted some way of shaming you lot—of reining you in. It even worked, sometimes," Remus said, head in his hands. He dragged his hands forward, pulling his mouth into a pout, and let go. "I tried. You helped," he added, with a glance at Loki.

"You did leave eventually…I assumed you'd contact us again, and perhaps you did, now I think. But where would you have looked? Your grandparents died in '79—that was the only house other than this one that you knew. Less than a decade after we summoned you, that house lay abandoned, and I was in Azkaban. How would you have found us? We should have thought of all those eventualities…but I suppose, as we were only about your age, now, it makes sense that we didn't. Gah, this is confusing!"

That he was asking for backup was obvious, but none was forthcoming.

"I think that's about it. I'll have to tell you a bit about my family. You don't remember what I said before, clearly."

Loki leant back, thinking over their tale, trying to make sense of it, which Thor did not help with by shifting incessantly. There was a sound from outside the room—a crash, if he could guess, and he was instantly wary, on alert.

Maybe it was only Kreacher, he thought, but hadn't he heard a voice just now?

"That sounded like Stephen," Thor said, frowning, looking and sounding as if he very much doubted his own ears.

"Stephen? Here?" Loki asked, about to demand how that could happen. And then, he sighed. How? Well, all he would have had to do was show Stephen this place in the future.

"Stephen? The mysterious 'sorcerer' you mentioned earlier? How could he have gotten through all of my dad's protective charms? And—and _you_ put up some barriers, too. How?" asked Sirius, perking up.

"_I_ will see whether or not it is he. All three of you shall remain _here_."

"Why did we go through all the bother of teaching you modern English if you're going to talk like that?" asked Sirius, resting his forehead on his hand, applying pressure, as if against a headache. Loki ignored him, standing before turning to face Thor again. It would make some strange sort of sense, if it _were_ Stephen. Stephen knew how to make an entrance.

It was, indeed, Stephen. And this was only the first of Stephen's many dramatic entrances to come, but they couldn't know that at the time.

-l-

Loki returned to the table a short time later leading Stephen, who was dressed in those same strange robes as always, and looking rather dusty, but little the worse for wear. Thor beamed at him as he entered. "Stephen!" he cried, standing to greet him, although they'd last seen him not even a week ago (why was he here at all?).

Loki glared at Thor for getting ahead of himself. "Stephen, these are Sirius Black, my dogfather, and Remus Lupin. You might remember that I mentioned them." Stephen took the hidden message, because he was smart: these were the men that they were working to save. Loki didn't glance in his direction, gaze fixed instead upon Sirius and Remus. "Sirius, Remus, this is Doctor Stephen Strange. He is a sorcerer, but a time traveler who came from the future to help us."

Sirius stared. Perhaps he'd had too many surprises in one day.

"Hello?" he asked, as if on a walkie talkie, uncertain whether or not he was on the right channel.

"A pleasure," said Remus, with a tired smile, standing up to offer Stephen a hand to shake.

"You aren't from a different world, are you?" asked Sirius, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'm from America, if that counts. Sometimes Britain seems like a completely different world."

Stephen sat down to Loki's left—and Loki returned to his own seat.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important," Stephen began, but Loki just _had_ to cut in.

"Has something happened, in the future?"

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know why I'm here. _You_ sent me, again. Told me I'd figure it out. By which, I assume, you mean that you sent me here so that I could meet these two."

"We were about to speak of the coming war," Loki mused. "Such talk would invariably have concerned you."

"Wait a second," Sirius protested. "'Coming _war_'?"

"I made mention of a being that returned life to me after I died on his world—"

"Thanos," said Stephen. "His name sounds a bit like 'Thanatos', the Greek God of Death. I don't know whether or not to consider that a coincidence."

"Is anything a coincidence?" asked Loki. "They seem scarce, of late. Your timing, for instance, could not have been better chosen."

Sirius noted to himself that Loki seemed to have advanced a few centuries in his diction, and decided that Stephen was an acceptable influence.

"By which you mean you were about to induct them into your evil plans to save the world," Stephen said. "God, now _I'm_ calling them that, too."

Somehow, no one commented on this last exchange at all.

"You're dragging us into a _war_?" asked Sirius, instead. Remus wasn't moving. He may have at last succumbed to information overload.

Loki cocked his head, with a grim smile. "I understand you have some familiarity with wars. This is not the sort of conflict you would be inclined to ignore. Thanos is a madman: He slaughters the half of every world he conquers, and calls it _mercy_. He believes that he is restoring order to the universe. Who can say whence comes his conviction that mass slaughter is indistinguishable from altruism?"

"Do you _always_ describe him the same way?" asked Stephen, his voice higher than usual with incredulity.

Everyone ignored this question.

"That sounds…bad," Remus said, sounding a bit dazed and winded, as if he'd just been thoroughly trounced. Nothing was said to this colossal understatement, either.

"I must have seen fit to introduce all those involved in the coming war to one another. The sooner we commence planning, the better prepared we'll be."

"Since you're letting the Chitauri Invasion happen anyway, I'd love to see how you plan to get into Director Fury and the Avengers' good graces."

Sirius gave a smothered snort. "Sorry. Just sounds like a bad band name."

He was not wearing one of his rock band t-shirts, today, or Stephen would have been sure to make a sarcastic comment about this.

"Hey, we're on the same page, now," Loki said, sounding _almost_ normal, _almost_ Harry, and thereby disorienting everyone else in the room.

It was a start, and that was all that mattered.


	93. Mistletoe

**Chapter Ninety-Three: Mistletoe**

Finding Ron new dress robes had to wait for later in their stay, but Harry absolutely insisted upon them. "You are the Crown Prince," he insisted. "I refuse to look the other way and let you go to the Ball in _those_ rags. Your father would be ashamed."

He deftly ignored the pretests that "he is your father, too". They were expected, by now.

Sirius had been set to the task of finding hand-me-downs from his own school days—and his brother, Regulus's. These were failsafes, in case they hadn't been able to go to Diagon Alley and Madam Malkin's for more modern ones, or if Ron insisted on being so stubborn as to refuse to let Harry spend any money on him.

But Ron, despite his massive reservoirs of courage, nevertheless quailed before the prospect of sorting through the old pureblood closets—or perhaps at Sirius's sharky grin. Ron suffered himself to be dragged to Diagon Alley, accompanied by Sirius, and Tonks, who took to appearing at Grimmauld Place for dinner, always spending most of her time with Remus, who may or may not have understood her intentions.

Over the next few days before the Yule Ball, many more explanations had to be made, about a hundred topics. Harry would only talk to Sirius and Remus about Loki's stay at Grimmauld Place, and after, when he was sure that no one else was there to listen in, which included Tonks. She was not in the know about most of the tale.

Loki had sworn both of them to secrecy concerning the coming war, not trusting the Ministry, or Wizarding Society in general, and even less Dumbledore, who was clever, but with his own designs. No one must know about the important things (_Thanos_, Stephen, Mother) who might be inclined to make decisions affecting the outcome of the next few decades.

And, yes, he told them about Mother, which discussion put them all into a rather brooding, stony silence. Stephen returned on that Thursday. He did not comment on the lack of Christmas decorations, which was just as well, as Kreacher had done enough of that for the last week that everyone else felt no need to contribute, either. There was a sort of peaceful reprieve, in which Harry researched _things_ in the Black library. Sirius seemed both horrified, and resigned.

"If Loki was here before, didn't he research how to cure Professor Lupin's lycanthropy?" Harry once asked, and Sirius's brows shot up. If that had been one of the things Loki had been researching, he hadn't said. It made some sense, however.

"I don't know. Why are you talking about yourself in the third person? I'll never come to terms with it, at this rate."

Harry just grinned, and then frowned. "It makes it easier for me to come to terms with, myself. Until that night we met—for the second time, I suppose—I was still deluding myself into thinking that it was all a dream. I need time to acclimate myself. And I have other concerns, besides. The egg from the tournament defies all attempts at solving its hidden message. I can't prove that Moody is the culprit who put my name into the Goblet of Fire. Fred and George need help with their joke shop. The Yule Ball is coming up. I have much to think of. Perhaps someday, I shall have the liberty of thinking of everything, freely. Until then, I will spend my time productively."

Sirius folded his arms, staring at Harry's stack of books, not all of which were in English. His eyebrows rose again. "Let me know how I can help you," he said, settling into a nearby chair. Harry promptly forgot he existed, which was just as well.

* * *

They arrived back at school earlier than they would have liked, to prepare for the Yule Ball. Harry cast a glance at the Foe-Glass, to see how the silhouettes had progressed in his almost weeklong absence. They were far from distinct, but gaining in opacity. Not that he'd expected to avoid the danger entirely; he was no fool. Now that they were back at Hogwarts, Harry felt his wariness return to him, renewed by the knowledge that his potential allies were halved. Dumbledore would hardly heed his warnings concerning Moody. He was on his own—except for Ron and Hermione.

Now, again, the egg of the First Task became the second most pressing concern—after the immediate one. Ginny had been kind enough to arrange a place for him and Luna to meet. After all, she was a ravenclaw, which would seem to exclude the most obvious choices for meeting places. Of course, Percy had dated that ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater, but he was off doing who-knew-what for Bartemius Crouch.

Harry would be somewhat disquieted to learn that, as Crouch was now indisposed for mysterious reasons, Percy Weasley would be remaining to judge the Tournament. Still, he noted the news with a stab of vindictive pleasure, at the suffering of the man who'd sent Sirius to Azkaban, without a trial.

The usual tacit assumption that each house would stick to its own table was, as usual, set aside for the Christmas Feast. He had never come around to asking Ron his thoughts concerning Christmas, which he would do later, he decided, but he could appreciate the festive atmosphere, and general good-spirits of those present at the feast. Even the snobby students of Beauxbatons were impressed when Hogwarts pulled out all the stops. Hermione was, for once, not going on about how slave labour had created their meal.

Luna sat to Harry's left, glancing around the room with some interest, although, as a third year, she'd seen Hogwarts decorated for Christmas before. Hagrid always brought in quite a few trees, procured from places unknown, but, owing to their need to show off to the foreign delegates, they'd gone further than usual this year. The walls were strung all over with garlands of holly and popcorn, and the trees had actual fairies buzzing amongst their branches and commenting (and giggling) at the festivities. And then, there was the problem of the plant Harry recognised only from a drawing in the picture book that Everett-Smith had derided: mistletoe. The plant that some myths held that Loki had killed a god with.

That was one of only two facts he knew about the plant, the other being that it was poisonous. He couldn't understand why it was hanging in drooping bundles above the doors to the room, nor why people seemed to giggle at it as they passed beneath on their way to the feast.

Not that he was watching very closely. But he still rather suspected that he was missing something. It had to be connected to Christmas _somehow_, didn't it? It wasn't as if the Dursleys had exposed him to much lore. They hadn't even gone wassailing.

He shrugged, and dismissed the entire thing as unimportant, for the moment, which he would regret later.

Luna was taking a count of the creatures that only she seemed able to see (or sense?), but she seemed to be in a good mood. Ron and Hermione sat across from them, Ron looking as if he were absolutely sure that his little brother needed monitoring. The overprotective big brother thing should be limited to being directed towards girls.

Or, maybe that made Harry sexist. It was impossible to tell, at this point. The Dursleys had twisted a system of morality that could hardly be considered conventional anyway into knots.

He shrugged. Christmas was a time of mystery and indecision for him. He'd feel better about the entire thing when the day was over. In the meantime, he had to brace himself for being in the middle of the spotlight, and opening the Yule Ball.

"It all looks so pretty," Luna said, in her dreamy voice. "I wonder how they did all of this decorating without us seeing it. Did you have a good visit with your godfather?"

He didn't remember telling her that. Perhaps Ginny had said something. He glanced over at Ginny and Neville. Ginny was smiling and laughing at something Neville had said, and he had to look away. He had a date. He should be more grateful. He turned back to Luna.

"It was a good change of pace," he decided. "None of the stares and glares from Hogwarts in general. No one expecting me to save the world. I didn't make any progress on that egg, though," He scowled at this last admission. "What about you? What have you been doing?"

Luna looked thoughtful. "Mostly, I've been looking for my shoes. People tend to take my belongings throughout the year, and hide them somewhere—I've yet to discover where. But they're kind enough to return them at the end of the year, so I guess there's that."

Harry stared at her. "They steal your belongings? You have no shoes? Luna, that is…" _wrong_, his mind supplied, but he glanced around, instead, as if expecting a chorus to supply the word for him. Luna was still smiling a dreamy smile.

He glanced down at her feet, but they were hidden under her dress, which was a rich, leaf green, as if she'd known all along that she'd be going with Harry, and had chosen the dress to match those bottle glass green robes Mrs. Weasley had bought him (for some reason) instead of buying ones for Ron. Perhaps Luna was a seer. He turned the thought over in his head, twice, and then set it aside.

Dinner was a very chatty affair for everyone but them. Luna would occasionally pause to point something out, but Ginny was right—they were both rather weird, in their own way.

He needed to stop thinking about Ginny. He should just be grateful that Luna had agreed to come with him. She'd even set aside her radish earrings, although she'd kept her necklace of butterbeer caps (for luck, she said), replacing them with more conventional jewelry. She was rather pretty, and her perpetual calm made a good balm against his constant wary agitation. And she was nice, and intelligent. He loved hearing about all the creatures her dad had told her about. There was never a shortage of interesting conversation, with Luna around.

Ron was definitely Hermione's date for the ball (or the other way 'round), which was another source of vicarious happiness for Harry. He could be glad for his brother finding another intellectual brunette, albeit one far less open to new ideas, ones without reams and reams and heavy tomes of proof. He shrugged. At least he wouldn't have to deal with their arguments quite as much, now that they'd finally admitted their feelings, or whatever.

"Well, think about it," Luna said. "They gave you a trial by combat, which you avoided altogether. The next should be a trial by ordeal. And remember, all of these Tasks take place here at Hogwarts. They probably don't want anyone going into the Forest, which violates the treaty we have with the centaurs and acromantulai, anyway, which just leaves the quidditch grounds, the Black Lake, and Hogwarts, itself."

He shuddered at the thought of being expected to return to the Chamber of Secrets, and glanced at Ginny again. Then, he shook his head. It was absurd to think that they'd even be able to access the hidden chamber. Luna had a point, though. There were only so many places the Second Task could take place…but just how versatile was wizarding magic, anyway? Could it create its own little microcosm?

Perhaps the Second Task would take place within these very walls. But…how long did it take them to set up a Task? Wouldn't they risk someone seeing? Of course, by then, it would be too late to prepare….

"Perhaps Cedric would be willing to assist me in figuring this out. We might pool our resources and knowledge. This might be another case where I was expected to know something that is part of more advanced study."

Luna smiled brightly at him. "Oh, no. they would never make the Task that easy. The professors all agree that you have the intelligence of a much higher grade student. They're not going to underestimate you, but I don't think the Second Task is familiar to _anyone_. Although, I _have_ seen Viktor Krum diving into the Lake once of twice with the egg. I wonder if that means anything."

As did Harry. Still, if he'd done more than once…maybe he had figured something out?

Something about water? Well, he'd think about it later.

For now, his responsibilities as Champion, no matter that he hadn't asked for it, took centre stage—more or less figuratively _and_ literally. Straightaway after dinner, the Champions were obliged to enter the Great Hall again, with their dates, all very formal and grand, and somewhat familiar. What a hassle.

It gave him the opportunity to note the other Champions, how overdressed they all looked, except Fleur Delacour, who was incapable of looking either overdressed or underdressed. She almost glowed in her gauzy robes of blue. He didn't recognise her date—someone at Hogwarts, he was sure. Davy something? It didn't matter.

Krum had brought either Padma or Parvati Patil—he couldn't tell them apart, even though they broke the usual identical twin mould by being in different houses. In fact, he'd forgot about Padma entirely until Colin had gone on about hoping that Dennis would be in gryffindor, and Hermione had noted the difference in houses. Was there a reason for him to keep track of them?

Cedric had come with Cho Chang, the Seeker for Ravenclaw. And wasn't Davy-whatever on a quidditch team? He wasn't sure, but it made him wonder if Fleur weren't on a house team, if they even had those in France. This all felt a bit of a quidditch gathering. Of course, Luna was indifferent about quidditch, and neither Padma nor Parvati were on a house team. It still seemed rather disproportionately quidditch-centric in the Champions corner.

Krum kept glowering over at Ron and Hermione, for some reason, but Cedric came over, before the formalities could begin, to thank Harry. Harry jumped in, asking if he'd made any progress with the egg. Cedric hesitated.

"I don't _think_ we're supposed to collaborate," he said.

"There's only supposed to be three Champions, too," said Harry, in response. "I think the rule book's out the window, and the odds are against my survival, anyway. I'll let you know if I learn anything else."

Cedric stared at Harry as if he were pulling his leg. Oh, come on. "It's in our best interests to pool our resources. No one at Hogwarts can whine if either of us win. But, I understand if you don't want to collaborate. I'll still tell you what I learn. The other schools assume that we're working together as a team, regardless."

Then, before Cedric could respond, someone started calling in the Champions, starting, of course, with Krum, who entered to wild cheers, and a dramatic fanfare. Fleur and Davy entered next, and Cho sensed her cue, approaching Cedric with a warm smile, and hand outstretched. Her dress was very gauzy and dark blue. That was as much as Harry noticed about the two of them, before he turned his attention to Luna.

"Are you ready?" he asked her. She tilted her head, considering the question.

"I think so," she said, nodding. "What am I expected to do?"

He raised an eyebrow in response. "Well, stand there and look pretty for a few minutes, I think—that shouldn't be too hard for you—and then we dance. You do know the moves for an old-fashioned waltz, don't you?"

Her finger went to her chin, as she considered the question. "I don't think so," she said, nodding as if she'd just made a decision. He sighed. Why didn't Hogwarts give instruction in this sort of thing?

"I suppose I could give you some instruction. But, if I'd cared about making a fool of myself, I should have asked you before. Do you mind looking the fool in front of everyone?"

Luna paused. "Not really," she said, at last, and he smiled at her.

"Brave girl," he said. Luna was possibly a good influence on him. He didn't feel nervous at all, at the idea of being presented to the crowd, and he was sure that he usually would, particularly without Ron and Hermione there to support him.

Cho and Cedric had been called in whilst Harry and Luna had been talking. They were next, and Luna was observant enough—despite her persistent dreaminess—to know to put a hand on his arm. She walked with a peculiar stateliness born of complete apathy as to what everyone else thought. She glanced around with muted curiosity at the proceedings around her. There was no mistletoe over the entryway that they had to use, which, for some reason, came as something of a relief. He didn't want to have to think of all the complicated possibilities it had kept bringing to the front of his mind.

They walked into the Great Hall, and Harry's gaze sought out Ron and Hermione. Hermione had the nerve to roll her eyes at him, in that brief second he had to look at her, but Ron nodded to him. Social functions would never be his favourite thing, but, somehow, the knowledge that his friends, and part of his family, were also here, helped to settle his nerves. He could do this.

At least he had the training to know how to dance. Perhaps the staff of Hogwarts, or elsewhere, might wonder at _how_ he knew, or perhaps they assumed he knew for whatever reasons everyone else did. Perhaps they'd had private instruction, which would just be unfair. Luna was not clumsy, moving with a sort of ghostly grace, gliding as if her feet needn't touch the floor. She was easily led.

It was both a relief and cause for alarm when the band on stage with them ceased from their slow, stately waltz, and started up some sort of fast-paced, wizarding pop music. He was out of the spotlight, free to seek out his friends, and stand aside, but, while he didn't mind dancing, he had no idea how to go about with anything modern.

"Perhaps, if you wish to dance any more, you might give me instruction," he said to Luna, under the music. "Never before did I realise that this style of dancing even existed. The Dursleys are rather…conservative, in all of their tastes."

Luna gave him a vague smile that could as easily have been a "yes" as a "no". Had he expected her to be direct?

He came over to Ron and Hermione, dragging Luna, or rather, leading her, as she was devoid of resistance, and content to be led.

"Where did you learn to dance, Harry?" asked Hermione, sounding politely curious. Harry glanced at Ron, and then looked down at the floor.

"Oh, you know, I just sort of picked it up," he said, not fully attending. "What did the two of you do to offend Viktor Krum?"

Hermione frowned, looking, for once, as if she did not have all the answers. "What? Harry, that wasn't a real answer to my question."

He ignored her. Ron gave him a reproachful frown, to which he just grinned.

"Say, where's Ginny?" he asked, and Hermione sighed, and gave him something of a mirror of Ron's reproval. They were definitely spending too much time together.

"You _have_ a date, Harry," Hermione scolded him, and he folded his arms.

"I am aware of that fact, Hermione," he said. He turned his back on her, turning to Luna. "Do you want to dance?"

Luna gave him a vague smile, that he suspected was meant to be a yes. He offered her a hand, unfolding his arms, and trying to be gryffindor gallant. He may, or may not, have succeeded, but Luna was a ravenclaw, so she didn't have as much room to judge as, say, Ginny would have.

He frowned, as he recognised the reason for Hermione and Ron's reproval.

Still, despite how open and large the Great Hall was, there were quite a few people in the room, and between body heat and activity, Harry found that he was quickly brought to sweating, perhaps a bit faint from the surprising heat of the room.

"Perhaps some fresh air," he murmured to himself. "Luna, would you mind if I left you for a few minutes?"

She blinked at him with her wide eyes. "It is a bit noisy here, isn't it?" she asked, and he remembered that she was ravenclaw's outcast. He took a moment to consider the thought that she might have been maligned and ostracised, even as he had. She was probably as accustomed to being snubbed, and ignored, as he was. More so, because Hogwarts and the Wizarding World usually fixated upon him. Few people even knew of her father, Xenophilius, or that he was the editor of a magazine. He ought to have thought of her.

"Care to escape?" he asked, with a smile.

Her expression was strange in that it lacked its usual dreaminess, as she smiled, and took his hand, and they made for the exit. This was too complicated of a setup.

There were refreshments along the side of the wall, and he made for those, first, because he knew that the secondary exit to the Great Hall led to outside. But, for whatever reason, the entire area was swarming with mistletoe.

Well, okay, "swarming" was probably not the right word. He stood back from it, frowning as he tried to figure out how to leave the Great Hall without either traveling back through the crowd, or encountering the plant. And he'd had his heart set on going outside, too. Fresh air was definitely useful, here.

"Yes, that's probably a good idea," Luna said, nodding sagely. He turned to her, brow furrowed. "They're often infested with nargles," she explained, and he shook his head. Just one more thing to add against them. Why _were_ they everywhere?

Before he could think better of it, he asked the question aloud, sounding petulant even to his own ears.

Luna returned a slightly less dreamy gaze than usual to him, eyes wide in surprise. It was probably cruel of him, but he noted to himself that, yes, Luna's eyes could widen, and, no, they didn't fall out in the process. "Don't you know about mistletoe?" she asked, with a tone of polite curiosity that he would have previously assumed she lacked the capacity for.

He shook his head. "All I know about mistletoe is that it's poisonous. I've been wondering why it's hanging everywhere," he said, leaving out his only other datum. There was no reason to rouse the suspicions of a ravenclaw.

Luna had the nerve to _giggle_ at him. He resigned himself to never understanding girls.

Or, at least, he didn't understand, until Luna, discretely looking around to see if anyone might be listening in, explained the muggle custom behind mistletoe to him. He could _feel_ his cheeks heat up. Oh. That explained it all. Still, what a ridiculous custom! Where would any such idea come from!

And…had Luna thought that he'd stepped back because…because he didn't want to kiss her?

_Did_ he want to kiss her? He was completely out of his depth, here. At least Ron had older relationships to fall back on. Did taking Luna to the Yule Ball constitute a date? It probably did.

He looked at the ground, and led Luna around the table, out of eyesight of most of the hall, to speak with her.

He was even more careful than before to avoid the mistletoe. He was also careful not to look at Luna, to give her time to regain her composure, which she seemed to have permanently affixed to her, which meant that it was to give _him_ time to regain _his_ composure.

"I'm sorry, Luna," he said. He was still not looking at her. "I didn't know that—about mistletoe, I mean."

She just smiled vaguely, which he took as encouragement. "I didn't do it to slight you. You're a great girl, and all—really smart, and pretty, and I didn't mean—" he huffed. He hated it when words let him down. "I mean…_were_ you hoping I'd kiss you?"

Directness was not his usual approach to anything, and it sat awkwardly on him. Luna laughed, and he glanced over at her, again. She did have a very pretty laugh, and they had a lot in common, if he stopped to think about it. And wasn't he always thinking that he was rather ungrateful, when it came down to it?

"I mean, I don't want to force you to, if you don't want to, but I think we're well away from nargles, over here, at least. What do they do, anyway?"

She leant back to glance at the mistletoe garlands, still with that vague smile. "They poke to pinch and poke people, mainly. I suppose they aren't as dangerous as wrackspurts."

Harry shrugged. "That doesn't mean that anyone would seek them out," he said, smiling at her.

"You're a good person," Luna declared, as if this pronouncement were some sort of royal edict. "I like you."

He blinked, and had no idea how to react, which was just as well. She leant forwards, then, staring at him intently as he shifted in sudden discomfort. She had an incredibly penetrating, intense gaze, one that always made him feel as if he'd done something wrong. Perhaps he had let her down. Perhaps he'd done _her_ wrong.

"Luna?" he asked, had the time to ask, before she leant forwards the rest of the way, and pressed her lips against his.

There was a moment's pause as he tried to figure out how you even reacted to something like this—he'd never, _ever_ been kissed, for one thing, and Luna had waited for some invisible cue to even do so. He decided that he'd been missing out, and that, if Luna had never dated before, it was not at all fair that she had to be so warm and lovely and endearing about…everything. What was he thinking, again?

Of course, mistletoe was not useful for prolonged kissing sessions—that would leave the pathways blocked and occupied, so Luna pulled away after a few seconds, and Harry just stood there, stunned, for a few seconds afterwards. It was a very good thing that he thought quickly, on his feet.

Fresh air suddenly seemed imperative, so, vaguely aware that he was holding her hand, still, he dragged her out under the smaller door leading to a corridor leading to another door leading to outside. Hogwarts had to be a complicated place, but this garden was usually here on Sunday nights. That was something.

"Huh," he said to Luna, who stood there, blinking innocent eyes at him. "You are very strange, Luna. but not in a bad way," he said, with the same sort of declamatory voice as she had used earlier, or a reasonable facsimile of it.

She smiled back at him.


	94. Because Giants Are Evil

**Chapter Ninety-Four: Because Giants Are Evil**

The garden was completely devoid of mistletoe, which was almost a disappointment, as he wouldn't have minded kissing Luna again.

Although… they did encounter Professor Snape, and overhear a conversation they most likely shouldn't have, concerning Hagrid, Madame Maxime, and Hagrid's parents. His mind tried to start down an unfortunate track, and he reminded himself that he was in the middle of a ball that only happened once every fifty years (or was it every century?), and that he was here on what seemed to be his first ever date, although he was still a bit unclear on that.

He turned back to Luna, to see how she had taken the news. "We think he's sort of a joke, in Ravenclaw," he said, and he frowned at her.

"Luna, dear," he said, in a deliberately light voice. "Even you ravenclaws can't possibly deny that Hagrid knows his stuff, and besides that, he's one of my best friends. Rescued me from the Dursleys, you know."

Luna just blinked at him, and he sighed. "…Although he hasn't said much to me lately," he had to concede.

Another pause. "You're lucky that I don't hate you, you know," he said, almost teasing, almost warning. Luna, in typical Luna fashion, ignored it all.

"I don't think so," she mused. "You wouldn't have brought me to the Ball if we didn't get on," she said, which was true; he'd told Ginny that, and not Luna, but Luna seemed almost to have a sixth sense for secrets. Or, she was alarmingly good at reading people.

"I don't care that Hagrid's mum is a giant. He's a good person," he insisted. Of far greater concern was whatever it was on Karkaroff's arm that was "growing clearer". Was Snape avoiding Karkaroff, for some reason? Not that Harry could blame Snape, if he was….

Luna interrupted his thought processes by leaning her head into his shoulder, dislodging his thoughts, and increasing his heartrate to thrice its normal rate. They probably shouldn't have sat down, then.

"Are you tired, then?" he asked, trying to figure her out, despite his earlier conclusion that he would never understand girls.

"You are very socially awkward, aren't you?" asked Luna, unusually direct, her tone almost pitying. Odd, considering she was the one whose fellow housemates routinely stole her belongings and hid them from her. He glanced again at her feet, at these thoughts, but they were still invisible under her dress.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot that you aren't wearing any shoes," he said. "How very unchivalrous of me. I suppose I could carry you back inside?"

She giggled, again, and leant further against him, as if to muffle her laughter. "Harry," she said, in an almost non-dreamy voice. "I'm used to it."

He turned to face her fully, forcing her to move her head. "But that isn't _fair_," he protested, wondering when he'd decided to adopt the values of House Hufflepuff. Perhaps they'd indoctrinate him as an honorary member, as he was now co-Champion of Hogwarts with Cedric Diggory, one of their own.

She looked back up at him, with a vague smile, some traces of amusement still lurking at the furthest reaches of her eyes. He froze, quite unable to move. He rested an awkward hand on her shoulder, and then realised his mistake. Thus, he basically had both arms wrapped around her.

He immediately thought that he ought to recoil, and shove her away, but he didn't move. He just studied her face, trying to understand her reaction. How could she be so blasé about her mistreatment? Was it something they had in common, then?

His gaze softened—Luna was not the sort of person anyone stayed angry at, even if she'd insulted Hagrid. His offer of chivalry, such as it was, stood.

"You are rather strange, yourself," she said, as if only just noticing this fact, and his lips tried to quirk up into a bitter smile. He sighed, instead, glancing back at the direction whither Hagrid had left, despondent at Madame Maxime's rejection, at her unwillingness to _trust_, and bit his lip.

"I know," he said, voice very soft, but not with hidden malice, for once. He looked away, and then looked back at her. Rejection was all he had the right to expect. It was what he was used to, for all that he now had friends in Ron and Hermione, Remus and Sirius, and even, he supposed, Stephen. But Luna was, as Ginny had said, a compatible sort of weird.

And it wasn't fair for any of them that he kept dragging Ginny back into the mix.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, and then paused as Luna shivered. "Are you _cold_?"

He tended to forget that the cold existed, on account of how little natural cold ever affected him. But Luna was shivering, and he knew that dress robes were hardly the most practical of garments. "We should go back inside," he said, frowning at her. Once again, he was absolutely sure that there was nothing he could provide in the form of body heat, but he wrapt an arm around her, nonetheless.

"I am a fool," he murmured. "Nevertheless, back inside is doubtless the best place for us to go. Perhaps I can find Ron and Hermione—congratulate them, you know. Maybe show you off, if you'd be willing."

He folded his arms around her, thinking that, at the very least, he could block the winter wind. He was not a very warm person, however, in any sense of the word, and the best thing to do was to get her back inside.

The air in the Great Hall certainly did seem much warmer, after that time spent outside. He sat her down at the gryffindor table, hovering uncertainly behind her.

"I'm fine, Harry," she said. "It's sweet of you to worry."

She did not sound terribly vague right now, either. That made him worry about her rather more. Still…she didn't seem to be lying. He would have known.

He frowned, and slid into the seat next to her with a sigh. He wished that dress robes included a cape, or something. Without looking at her, he wrapt an arm around her shoulder, hoping against hope that it would help to ward off the chill, instead of making it worse, his mind already turning to other matters.

* * *

Harry banged on the door to Hagrid's cabin a few more times, for good measure. This was _almost_ personal. He was still shaking with anger at Rita Skeeter's latest article, but at least he hadn't filled his fists with shards of ceramic, this time. Progress. Thor didn't seem able to decide whether to be concerned or alarmed at Harry's mood, or its implications.

Of course, he'd had a bit of a rant at Thor, first, back in the common room, after he'd first seen the article. Hermione, not in the loop, had been rather perplexed at his behaviour.

"It doesn't matter that Hagrid is completely harmless!" he'd ranted. "All that matters is that he's _half-giant_, and we all know that giants are irredeemably evil."

He'd glowered at the floor, and, if looks were capable of killing, the floor would have burnt all the way through, and the common room would have had a lovely peephole into the floors below.

"Harry, Rita Skeeter thrives on discord and strife. She wrote this article knowing that Hagrid was your friend, and that is why—"

Harry ignored Thor. Harry was pacing, thoughts racing, more than overtaking his feet with their swiftness.

"We are going to see him, and we are going to show him that none of that matters. It doesn't matter to _you_, does it?" he asked, fixing Thor with a steely gaze, and Thor suddenly understood what the real problem was. Accordingly, he took a moment to find his best words.

"It never troubled me," he said, voice as quiet as he could make it. "We shall follow your lead, Hermione and I."

"Ron, what the _hell_ is he talking about?" Hermione asked, clearly at her wit's end. She was just about frustrated to the point of tears, but Ron whispered something soothing to her, and pulled her into a hug, and apparently all was forgiven, or forgotten, or something. Harry didn't know; he wasn't paying attention.

He'd stormed (if such a word could ever be used for him) out across the grounds in a bad humour, and Thor had deliberately lagged behind, had allowed him to go first. This was Harry's own, personal battle, after all.

_'It never mattered.' How can Thor not __**care**__?_ He'd flinched at the word that his interior monologue would insist upon using, and taken his own inner turmoil out on Hagrid's door.

He was still at it five minutes later, with the same determination. "Hagrid, open up! We don't care about all that ridiculous tripe Skeeter wrote. She doesn't know what she's talking about, and no one with any sense would ever listen to her."

Still nothing.

"Hagrid," he said, his voice lower, and taking on a more dangerous edge. "If you do not open this door, _now_, I will—"

Dumbledore threw open the door, and Harry reeled back in shock, and then went very red, bowing his head.

"Ah, Headmaster Dumbledore. I believe that I owe you an apology."

But, Dumbledore beamed, twinkling at him. "Not at all, my dear boy. Not at all."

He stood aside, to let the three of them enter. Harry cast him a wary glance as he sidled past, but Ron and Hermione, for good reason, did not seem as disturbed.

"Well, Hagrid, in case you didn't hear, it seems to me that your friends are upset on your behalf, and are quite distraught at your absence over the last few days. If I am not misinterpreting your, ah, rather effusive statements."

Harry stared down at the table, and slid into his usual seat, and said nothing.

"I have received countless letters from parents of Hogwarts students, begging me to keep you on as professor—they remember you fondly from their own Hogwarts days."

Harry snuck a glance at Hagrid, who was standing over by the counter, sniffing incessantly around a face already covered with tears. He brought a pink handkerchief to his nose and blew it, with a loud noise. Harry sighed, and looked away. "Well, yeah, but not—not everyone, not everyone wants me back," Hagrid began, sounding uncertain.

Dumbledore's voice, when he spoke, was rather sharp, "If you are holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid that you will be stuck in here for a very long time."

Harry cocked his head. "That's certainly true. Even Dumbledore doesn't have _universal_ popularity. There will always be someone."

"Well, I think I will leave you in the capable hands of your friends, Hagrid. I refuse to accept your resignation, and expect you back at work this Monday." He cheerfully swept from Hagrid's cabin, apparently content to throw Harry, Ron, and Hermione under the metaphorical bus. Harry could think of nothing Hermione had done to warrant such treatment.

"Yes, Hagrid, please don't leave us to Professor Grubbly-Plank. She's boring," he said, resting his head on his hand, and his elbow on the table. Hagrid chuckled a bit.

"He's right…I've been stupid. Shouldn't let people like that cow Skeeter get to me. Not been treating you lot right, either. Had my head in the clouds, didn't see straight. How to make it up to you…hmm, well, I've been looking through my mementos, you know. Found my picture of my dad, thought you might want to see—he was a real tiny bloke, you know. He was so proud when I got my Hogwarts letter…didn't live long enough to see me expelled, that's the only blessing about that night."

Harry took a moment to consider the question of whether or not anyone had ever informed _Hagrid_ that "You-Know-Who" had been the one to get him expelled. He rather doubted it.

He kept his mouth shut, unsure whether it was even a good idea to bring back up such painful memories, and stared at the old photograph—all in black and white. Hagrid's father was only short in comparison, he decided. Hagrid in the picture couldn't have been older than eight, but he was tall even then. But the friendly, big-hearted smile was just the same, familiar, making Hagrid easily recognisable without concern for proportion.

Even Ron and Hermione had the tact needed not to ask where in this picture Hagrid's mum was, and yet Hagrid explained on his own how she had left him behind with just his dad, when he was a little kid. Then, he went on about how violent and savage giants were, and Harry's fists clenched. He closed his eyes, and leveled his glare out into impassivity before Hagrid could notice. Hermione and Ron noticed, he knew, before his face froze into a dispassionate mask.

There would always be those who knew, as he almost instinctively knew as regarded others, just the right thing to say to break through his barriers, but Hagrid was not one of them, and his aim was not to _hurt_ Harry. He was merely relating his own experience, and for all Harry knew, Hagrid was right.

Hadn't he used a similar argument before? What were the chances that the people of Jotunheim were as savage and monstrous as Asgard painted them as being? There would always be fear and hatred, and as long as there was fear, or hatred, there would be propaganda. Odin had tried to fix that, but he'd tried the wrong way. He should have started by ensuring that his sons inherited none of the biases they'd been raised on.

Thoughts for another time. He needed to redirect the conversation, for the moment.

Hagrid had already done that. "…And when I got to that shack in the middle of the sea, that night when I went to get you to bring you here to Hogwarts, I thought how similar we were…both orphans, both looked down on. You were so small and alone, and I thought I'd try and make things easy for you here. Some friend I've been, eh?"

Harry said nothing.

"It's why you've got to win this Tournament, Harry. You have to show them that it doesn't matter who you are, or where you come from—that you're just as good as everyone else, even though you were raised by those muggles."

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "Haven't made a dent in my egg. I'm working on it."

Hagrid's face fell. "Well, you'll figure it out; I know you will. Clever little tyke, you were, I'm sure. Precocious."

Harry nodded. "I've been told that, yes," he said.

"Thank you, Harry, you're a good friend. You too, Ron, Hermione. Don't know what I'd do without you lot."

Fang whined, and Hagrid ruffled his head fur affectionately, before dragging all four of them into a rather odd hug. Fang was twisted ninety degrees as only dogs can, and was licking all four of them as best he could.

"You'll pull through, Harry. I just know you will," Hagrid said, eyes brimming with tears, again.

"I don't think a long-distance relationship would have worked that well, anyway," Harry said. "Especially if she refuses to listen to you."

Hagrid walked back over to the stove, muttering something about lies and big bones. Harry didn't listen very hard. Ron shot Harry a significant look that he affected not to see. Hermione tossed Skeeter's article into the fire with more violence than strictly necessary, making Fang whimper.

* * *

Luna made no further comments on Hagrid's unsuitability as professor. Instead, she told Harry the location of the ravenclaw dorms, encouraging him to visit, if he were any good at riddles. He thought he might as well. There was something reassuring about her presence, and she was always full of ideas, some more plausible than others, concerning the egg.

"It's definitely fake," he told her for the fifth time, which made her pout. He rested a hand on her back in silent apology, and said, "If it weren't fake, it would probably destabilise the economy. I have no idea how the wizarding economy remains as stable as it is, of course—"

Luna was not interested in economics. She folded her arms and pouted harder, and he gave a little laugh, and shook his head.

"I think that it's just in the shape of an egg because it was amongst the dragon eggs. I don't think its shape is a clue…."

In a way, it was almost reassuring that Luna, a ravenclaw, had no better notions concerning the egg than he.

"I have it!" she cried, and he thought that she'd finally caught one of those invisible creatures she was always on about, until she leapt over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Clarity is the opposite of incomprehensibility! Water is the opposite of fire! That's why Krum is always swimming in the lake."

It was rather disturbing that this made as much sense as it didn't. Not that he was thinking very well, anyway, with Luna so close.

"Hmm," he said, thinking it through quite deliberately. "I'm not sure I understand, Luna…."

"Whatever the Second Task is—it's the opposite of the First Task," she said. "Water instead of fire. Unseen, unheard, instead of seen and heard. You'll be on your own."

His face fell. "Ah. Because I do so well, alone."

He had such a lovely, wonderful history with that. Luna pouted, again.

"Oh, don't worry, silly! You'll always have us! I don't think they'll want me to stick to you throughout the Task, though…."

She wrapt her arms around him in a hug, and he sighed, returning the favour. "I do wish that you could come, Luna." He remembered the First Task, all the anxiety when he'd only had to look after himself, and changed his mind. "On second thought, I'd rather know that you were safe."

He smiled down at her face, and she was kind enough to give him a consolation kiss. Luna, he decided, was very sweet. He'd have to do something about those ravenclaws who kept stealing her things.

* * *

On the other hand were the repercussions of their conversation with Hagrid. His entire life seemed to be in flux, of late. Stephen was insufferably smug about everything. He refused to listen when told that it was unfair that he should gloat about his knowledge of the future, under the insistence that their future selves were quite as insufferable, or more so. He was only returning the favour.

"But I haven't had the chance to gloat, yet," Loki had to protest. "This is not the future."

That he was distracted by life in general went without saying. If he was less skilful with words than usual, Stephen overlooked it, rather than call attention to it.

He had still yet to meet Hermione, even though she and Thor were dating, and continued to be married in the various futures Stephen came from. That time was coming.

But first, of course, it was time to have another insufferable chat with Thor about family. Apparently, this was his new pastime.

"He meant no harm," Thor had to remind him, first. "He did not know the truth."

"And nor did I—nor you, I assume, until—" He found himself unable to finish that sentence. But, there was, under all that wariness, the unfortunate acknowledgement that Thor had done his best—that he was here, now, spoke volumes. Harry'd bound himself to that conclusion years ago, back when he'd spoken to Mother, first asking her where Thor was. Hadn't he thought something to the effect that it would necessarily speak well of Thor, were he here, looking for his brother, despite having no cause to think that he'd find him here? Now, as it turned out, he _had_ cause, but—

"You are my brother," Thor insisted. "I may be as vulnerable as any to 'peer pressure', I believe they call it, but I never thought less of you. Nor did Father, or Mother."

By "think no less", he clearly didn't mean that they accepted what he'd done. And they hadn't known about the elephant in the room.

But, at the same time…they were all the family he'd ever known. As he had no memory of meeting the Marauders, back when they'd been the Marauders, that held. And the Sorting Hat had said that _love_ was his guiding force. His mind kept returning to its words.

There was truth in them, more than he might have expected. Love was his guiding force? What had pulled him back from death as a baby, doubtless, and again, in first and second year. The guidance of his mother, and the protection of his brother, were ready for him to see. But he was not Malfoy. He did not fall back on his powerful father for authority. He made his own way.

Just how was authority connected to love, anyway? When he reflected back upon the Sorting Hat's words, tried to pick them apart, that particular clause made little sense to him.

He knew what it meant. Hadn't he always before measured his own worth by him—hadn't his greatest goal been that attempt, to gain Odin's approval? And then, in turn, he'd taken up the same lessons and standards as everyone else back home. Not because of his surroundings. Because of his father. That distant authority, that seemed impossible to please. That was all that the Sorting Hat meant. That, or….

But he'd succeeded, sometimes. And after all that... here was Thor, saying that all that work had never been necessary. The Sorting Hat could interpret memories through a different lens, but it was still limited to its wearer's experience. It had sensed, even so, the influence that Odin had had on Harry, far greater than that of James Potter, or Vernon Dursley. That influence, which had cut clean through Vernon Dursley's attempted teachings in a matter of months.

He thought of kings, and princes, and palaces, and remembered the dragon (as if he could have forgot).

"I know," he said. He was tempted to ask for more time, but he knew that he'd already made his decision. It was in what he'd said to the dragon, during the First Task. "There is no need to keep a constant eye on me, lest I do some foolish thing as attempt to murder Hagrid, or whatever plot you think that I have devised. When I spoke to the dragon, I told her that my father was a king of another realm. I didn't mean Jotunheim."

He was not looking at Thor, but he could still gauge his brother's response. There was always a sense of it in the air. He didn't need to look to see his reaction. He knew what it was. He'd rather prefer to lack the details.

"You told the dragon—?" Thor began, with such evident bewilderment that Harry sought for a way to take pity on him. None were forthcoming.

"Dragons are intelligent," he said, shrugging as if it didn't matter. There was a sort of smugness smothered under Thor's confusion, but he was willing to suffer that, too. "Denial and nurturing grudges have led me to dangerous depths before. I like to think that I learn from my mistakes. Did I not ask of you that you give me the time in which to sort through these matters on my own?"

Thor fidgeted. "It seemed more prudent to ensure that you did not simply ignore the matter," he said, in what could almost be considered a diplomatic fashion. The worst part was that Harry couldn't even begrudge him that conclusion, because that was precisely what he had done.

But all was well that ended well, as the saying went, and now they were on the same page.


	95. How to Swim

**Chapter Ninety-Five: How to Swim**

"Hermione," Harry said, a few days after the article concerning Hagrid and his mother came out. He was still seething, but very quietly. Anyone with any sense who heard his voice would know that he was not to be trifled with. This included Hermione, who gulped, and set aside her essay. At least she wasn't frozen, like a deer in the headlights, this time. Perhaps she'd been promoted from "frightened rabbit".

"Wh—what is it, Harry?" she squeaked, casting about for assistance. Surprisingly, neither Neville, nor Seamus, both in the Common Room at the time, came to her rescue. "Oh, don't look that way," Harry said, with an offhand wave, sitting down several feet away from her; she nevertheless felt the need to scoot aside as if to give him a wide berth. Harry rolled his eyes. Sometimes, you just had to.

"It isn't about _you_," he said. "It's about Rita Skeeter. She must be stopped."

This was a declaration, the sort that generals gave to their armies at war. Hermione did not seem to take this message, instead frowning and folding her arms, in an attempt to make Harry see sense. He had no idea why she thought that would avail her _now_.

"Harry," she said, in her gentlest voice, which made him frown. She paused, and drew back, and he sighed, looking away from her, and tapping his feet. She unfroze, and continued, "Harry, we've been over this before. We can't stop Skeeter if we don't know how she's coming by her information—"

"You've been discussing this?" he asked, cocking his head. "With whom?"

Certainly not with him, or he'd have already had this conversation. Hermione would not meet his eyes, instead fiddling with the cuff of her robes.

He sighed, and let it pass. "I know how she's getting her information," he said, with a smile. "And I can think of no one better equipped to figure out what to do with her than _you_."

Alright, perhaps he'd do a better job, but he had other concerns. With the holidays past, and New Year's come and gone, the Second Task was all anyone was talking about. He needed to figure out that egg.

Hermione blinked, staring at him. "You _know_? Then….you could have done something about her—!"

"It's not that easy," he said, shrugging. "You have to find and catch her, first. She's sure to be at the Second Task. I'll lend you the Map. Just look for her name."

He considered leaving it at that, but then took pity on her. "She, like our dear friend Peter Pettigrew, is an unregistered animagus. I didn't know that they could turn into bugs, but—" He shrugged, again. "Oh, but don't tell Ron. I don't know how he'd react."

And then, before she could protest that blackmail wasn't her style or something, he stood up and left her to her study. But, perhaps she didn't mind after all, for she didn't tell Ron.

* * *

It was Cedric who provided an answer to the riddle of the egg—he wouldn't say how he'd come by it, but when pressed had said that he'd "had help", which suggested someone pulling strings (Harry shuddered). Telling him to take a bath in the prefects bathroom was almost excessive, or that was how it initially seemed. (of course they had their own bathroom, and it was very kind of Diggory to share the secret of how to enter, although it _was_ on the Map; Remus had been a prefect, too). Stephen probably knew all about this Task, but knew that he had to keep silent and let things run their course, which did not stop Loki from asking him. It never did to ignore the obvious routes.

He'd had to put up with Moaning Myrtle, but he'd figured out the egg with Cedric's help, which probably did nothing but nullify recent events—a tradeoff, the dragons for the egg. Luna (clever girl) was right, if for the wrong reasons. That incomprehensible screeching was actually a language, albeit one that Harry would probably never learn. Mermish, apparently.

He memorised the threatening lines of the "clue", somehow ducked out of having to promise to visit Myrtle again, and even managed to drive her off, hoping that he wasn't dripping wet and suspicious, because Filch and Mrs. Norris patrolled the corridors of Hogwarts after dark, and…hang on, _Bartemius Crouch_, who was unfit to judge the tournament? In Snape's office? Why would he be there? Sneaking around was not a pastime generally encouraged at Hogwarts, but in this situation, it almost seemed imperative. Any time he ignored some such unusual thing, he was made to regret it.

He frowned, glancing around the Prefects bathroom as if Myrtle would have decided to just reappear, and then pulled out the invisibility cloak, again, because this situation seemed to call for it, and stole through the Hogwarts corridors, seeking for Bartemius Crouch, rummaging through Snape's personal effects…or whatever. The Marauder's Map, after all, never lied.

Of course, Snape seemed to have a sixth sense for these sort of things (or perhaps even a _seventh_, a truly alarming thought), and their paths crossed as he headed to his office. Harry decided that, if Snape were aware of circumstances, there was no need to pursue this lead, and he was tired. He foresaw a long day filled with studying the Black Lake ecosystem, or some such. It would figure that the Second Task _would_ have to be underwater. He'd never end up using the Sword of Gryffindor for anything but practise, at this rate. He didn't know precisely what it was made of, or how it had been forged, but he was unwilling to risk it turning all rusty due to exposure to water, or something (he would regret this decision on the day of the Second Task, when he needed something with which to cut loose the hostages).

Had he ever mentioned to anyone that the Dursleys had never seen fit to teach him how to swim? He wasn't sure. That was yet another problem, on top of everything else.

Just _what_ was it that he'd sorely miss? There were far too many candidates, unfortunately, and that phrase was deliberately vague. He'd miss his sanity, of course, and it was probably within the power of wizards to take it away from him, but it would not be in their best interests any more than it was in his. Which wouldn't have stopped them, even had they known, but it probably did not fit the nature of the competition.

Even if you removed the threat of dangerous curses affecting things like your free will, your memory, your motor skills, your sanity, there were still quite a few candidates for things that Harry would sorely miss. He wondered when he'd become so sentimental. But then, what did it _matter_ what he'd sorely miss? For reasons quite different from victory and proving himself (he felt no need to prove himself to the Wizarding World, when he'd spent an entire _lifetime_ trying to prove himself to his family; compared to them, the Wizarding World as a whole could go hang), he _had_ to do his best at this task.

He scowled at the realisation that they had him well and truly boxed in. Yet another prison, huh? But he, Luna, Hermione, and Ron pooled their thoughts. Ron was most concerned with keeping Harry alive. Hermione realised sensibly that whatever he missed _that_ much would probably cripple him to lose. She did not seem to like the portent of the matter, at all. She spent most of her time trying to figure out what it could be.

"Perhaps we might focus on the matter at hand, namely, how I am to survive for an hour under the lake (almost certainly longer than an hour, as that time accounts only for finding and 'recovering what' they took), when _I don__'t know how to swim_?"

Swimming lessons probably took longer than a couple of months.

"I suppose I could teach you some of the basics," Hermione mused, thankfully paying attention at that moment. Perhaps she'd heard Harry's emphasis.

"I know how to survive underwater," Neville added, leaning forwards over Hermione's frantic diagrams and notes. Harry was not quite as resentful of him as he would have been had he not had Luna to commiserate with. He was, at least, willing to hear Neville out.

"You found something?" he asked, cocking his head. In retrospect, he should have recruited more than just his inner circle of friends (and Luna, whatever she was). "Do tell."

And Neville, beaming at the thought of being _useful_ for once, began to tell him, in a wealth of detail, about some plant called gillyweed. As with all of the solutions Harry had researched thus far, it had its ups and downs, but if he combined it with a few other tactics….

"I see," he said, mind turning to the thought of how he would acquire the plant in time for the Second Task. He would have to ask Professor Snape for an order form for the apothecary, or something. Except, Snape would probably prefer that he drown. McGonagall, then. "Brilliant, Neville." he tacked on, with an absent smile that nevertheless had Neville beaming. Neville was as approval-starved as Harry. And what was that about Neville's reaction to the Cruciatus, again? Yet another thing to put off for later.

When you added the bubblehead charm to gillyweed, you had a halfway decent plan…except for the fact that he still didn't know how to swim, and deciding when to use which was a bit tricky. Still, he was beginning to feel prepared.

* * *

"_Dobby_?" he asked, incredulous. He sort of assumed that Dobby had gone off to see the world, after he'd been freed from service to the Malfoys. To find him here, and working in the Hogwarts kitchens was…unexpected. That Winky was also there was, after that, almost a given. Apparently, Hogwarts was the gathering place for all outcasts. Still….

"Dobby is so happy to see Master Harry Potter, sir," said Dobby, as Harry stared him up and down. Freedom suited him. Despite this fact, however, he still seemed to prefer to work for a living, and he declined offers of higher pay, which frustrated Hermione to no end. Her frustration next to that of the other, less tolerant house-elves in the kitchens, who took offence to the suggestion that they should be working for a wage…or that they were slaves…or a great deal many more things that Hermione said. Said house-elves seemed so offended by Hermione's questions that they, as politely as possible, retreated further into the kitchens, and avoided Hermione, leaving her to Dobby and Winky.

Winky did not seem to be doing too well, either. Harry had to wonder if there weren't some sort of invisible, unexplored connection between house-elf and master, that still bound the two of them together, or something. Of course, Crouch had stopped coming to the Tournament only after the First Task…and it hadn't even been _announced_ when he'd sacked Winky. The two events were probably unconnected. But Winky did seem utterly miserable…and drunk. Harry had an unfortunate amount of familiarity with _that_.

However, as, most unfairly, he no longer had his excuse not to take sides in the great _Spew_ debate, Harry tried to take a survey of the opinions of the house-elves working at Hogwarts, as to whether they felt mistreated, and got the general impression that they were happy working at Hogwarts, and didn't consider themselves overworked or mistreated at all.

Hermione insisted that they were brainwashed, and Harry said, rather at the end of his tether, "Oh? And who is responsible for that? Dumbledore, do you think? I won't deny that the living conditions of house-elves in other places necessitates the establishment of their basic rights in the wizarding community as a whole, but you can't argue that they're miserable _here_, and that they only _think_ they're not because they don't know better. They seem happy enough to me. Not everyone is cast in the same mould. If you truly want to understand, I suppose we can talk with Dobby, some, about what makes him different from his fellow workers here. "

The conclusion he reached was that Dobby was an anomaly, whose ideas of freedom and wages came of a lifetime spent in servitude to the Malfoys. In another family, he might have been better adjusted, and, like those working at Hogwarts,not have questioned his treatment, whether he didn't deserve to be treated with more consideration and kindness. But the Malfoys had kept him utterly miserable, and that for no reason, and freedom and wages were the means by which he could _escape_. It was less a matter of civil liberties, and more a means of protecting himself from suffering. Avoidance of pain as a fairly universal trait across races. It wasn't that Dobby felt overworked, or that he valued freedom and wages in themselves.

He tried to explain it to Hermione, but the idea was too alien for her, and she was forced to retreat. Ron neatly sidestepped the entire conflict by talking to the house-elves, in some sort of third space of neither master-slave, nor equal. It was very kingly, which made Harry hate him, a little. Especially since Ron didn't seem to realise that he was doing it.

Hermione left after an hour, or so, flustered and looking as if she were going to redouble her _Spew_ efforts, and maybe set up a mini school-within-a-school in the kitchens. Harry wished her joy of it, and told her firmly, and for the last time, that he wasn't joining unless she changed her objectives. He was not going to impose British human culture onto these people. He cited the examples of India and Australia, pointing out that it was rarely a good idea to go in and overturn a society's entire structure.

Hermione was not happy with him, and, were it not for the upcoming Second Task, would have refused to speak to him. But, angry though she was, she didn't want him to _die_, any more than Ron did. Well, perhaps slightly more than Ron did, because few people were as obscenely dedicated as he.

* * *

Little could be said about the Second Task. Despite the hype and concerns building up to it, it was a straightforward affair. Luna was exceptionally right, spot on. It was unseen, unheard, unintelligible, unknown. The audience must have had some way of seeing what was going on, but Harry didn't know, could not for the life of him figure out, what. Wizards didn't have microcameras. Even muggles didn't have microcameras, yet. There may have been some sort of spell subtly placed on each Champion to allow people to follow their progress through the water but, judging by the chieftainess of the merfolk coming up into the air to speak with Dumbledore concerning events that occurred down below, that wasn't it, either.

And, yes, Harry had rescued Hermione as well as Ron, because they were both his best friends, and it went against all he'd been taught to leave either of them behind. It kind of seemed a villain-thing to do, which he was eschewing to the maximum extent possible. Also, as he admitted to himself, it sabotaged whomever _Hermione_ was intended to be the hostage for.

He had no idea why she'd been chosen, and neither did she, later on. But Cedric rescued Cho Chang, and Fleur, in tears, thanked Harry for rescuing her sister, who apparently was the little girl he'd brought with him, again, for reasons of sabotage.

Cedric had rescued Cho, and Harry had rescued the rest, which irked Krum. Fleur Delacour, on the other hand, was inclined to be grateful. The haunting melody with its lines of "too late, it's gone, it won't come back" had driven her to distraction. Apparently, the girl was Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, and Harry's almost-impulsive decision to rescue her completely changed Fleur's opinion of him. Sometimes, he supposed, it paid to be impulsive and rash. This was the first "international connection" he'd made, after all.

That didn't stop Hermione from scolding him, but he bore it with what passed for good grace, from him. Meaning, he essentially affected not to hear her, and waited for her to run out of steam. He knew that she hated it when he did that.

Ron, by contrast, completely and utterly approved. It was, he had to concede (silently, of course), exactly the sort of thing _Thor_ would have done—which was probably why he'd done, come to it. Was he _really_ still asking himself what Thor would do? Even though he could ask the man himself, at any time?

Almost any time. That, apparently, was the key difference. Or maybe, it meant that _he_ was spending too much time with Ron.

Unfortunately, his actions seemed to throw the entire scoring process into disarray—which, in retrospect, he should have expected, not that he would have cared. The real problem was that it meant that the lot of them had to sit around by the lakeshore in what was, essentially, the middle of winter (who comes up with these stupid ideas?), with Hermione, Fleur, and Gabrielle in particular shivering, and Ron glaring at Viktor Krum, who was attempting to talk to Hermione—who, come to think of it, looked red as a radish with wrath. He was missing something, but he left them to it, and stayed over in the corner, with Fleur and Gabrielle.

_He_ wasn't cold (which was barely worth noting anymore), and neither was Ron, for obvious reasons (as obvious as the reason that he could see thestrals, once you knew), and Krum came from colder climes. Luna, as if this were a picnic, joined them down at the lakeshore, sensibly attired in a winter overcoat, and probably something suitably warm under her robes for her legs, which just left her feet. Harry cocked his head at her, and offered her his shoes, ratty though they were. "They're probably too big for you, too," he said, with a shrug. "Still, they're better than nothing. I shan't need them until we get back inside, anyway."

She stubbornly refused to put them on, and he sighed. "I do well enough without shoes," she said, in her dreamy voice. "Wearing those will only make me remember the cold."

As with much of what Luna said, this both did and did not make sense. He set the shoes aside, instead, deciding that he'd put them back on before they went inside, if Luna hadn't changed her mind before it was time to go.

It took several minutes conference before the huddle in the judges' corner dispersed, and scores were ready to be awarded…out of one hundred? Dumbledore's glasses twinkled in the murky sunlight as the merchieftainess and her escort returned beneath the lake. Aside from Dumbledore, who was easily amused, and perhaps Bagman, everyone seemed vexed with recent developments.

"Therefore, the scores awarded are as follows. Fleur Delacour performed a flawless bubblehead charm, but was incapacitated and gave up early on. For her skill, we award her eighty-four points."

"I deserved a zero," Fleur said heartily, with a dramatic flip of her hair. She smiled at Harry, and then at Ron. Ron didn't seem to notice. He had an arm wrapped around Hermione, and was keeping an eye on Krum, to ensure he didn't come any closer. Or something.

Speaking of—

"Viktor Krum was the last to reach the hostages, which we have docked from his score. Although he successfully faced all the challenges beneath the lake, he was well outside the time limit allotted of an hour. We have reason to believe that he would successfully have retrieved his hostage, had he had the opportunity. Docking him ten points for his extreme tardiness, he comes out at ninety points, an impressive score—this puts him well into first place."

The crowd erupted into cheers. Harry clapped politely, and Fleur respectfully, but Luna and Ron seemed a bit confused as to what all the noise was about. Or, perhaps Ron was upset with Krum for more personal reasons.

Then Dumbledore made a characteristically Dumbledore move, saying, "Ah, but we have yet to award the rest of the points. To Mr. Cedric Diggory, then. Cedric Diggory reached the hostages second, adroitly handling all obstacles lying in wait, and returning only a few minutes after the hour deadline. Although he exceeded the time limit, his performance was otherwise exemplary. Moreover, for whatever reason, he was one of only two Champions to actually rescue his hostage. We therefore award him ninety points, tieing him with Mr. Krum."

Cheers rang out from the attending Hogwarts students, drowning out what Harry was sure were boos from Malfoy's corner, as everyone cheered Cedric on. It was very end of first year.

Dumbledore sighed, which, unfortunately, was also amplified by the _sonorus_ charm, which exaggerated the gustiness of it until you would have expected the leaves in the trees to be moving, too. He might even have done it on purpose.

"Finally, to Mr. Harry Potter," he said, sounding…resigned. Harry wouldn't look at him, only now questioning the moral validity of his actions. Too late to take them back, but was Dumbledore perhaps disappointed with his choices?

"Before we award points to Mr. Potter, who, I might add, was first to reach the hostages, and showed remarkable ingenuity in his use of mixed branches of magic, although he, too, reached the hostages after the time limit had elapsed, we must ask him a question."

A sudden thought struck Harry, who glanced at the watch he'd once fixed that had belonged to Dudley. Waterlogged, not waterproof, it was now little more than a glorified bracelet. Apparently, the _impervius_ charm didn't last as long as he'd thought. Harry glanced up at Dumbledore through his bangs, and said nothing.

"Harry, the judges of the competition wish to know your reasons for rescuing Ms. Granger, before they decide your final score."

Harry raised his head to meet Dumbledore's gaze. "…Really? They're honestly asking me to tell them why I troubled myself to rescue _one of my best friends_? Let me sing you a tale, then, of a night for which I have yet to make amends, when this same Hermione Granger followed me into certain danger, even when she had lost her only protection, and…(how did you put it?) 'used cool logic in the face of fire', thus saving my life, when the time wasn't far removed that I'd valued her life less than Ron's—I suppose that's why _he_ was chosen for my hostage. Let me tell you the tale of the girl who, in second year, when even the professors were stymied, lit a torch to guide us and show our way in the trial to come. I owe her my life, and I have done a poor job of repaying it."

He had done this before—he knew the style and cadence, the way to lend extra power to his words, make them reverberate and resound in an enclosed space; that part was easy. But the words were carefully chosen, with a storyteller's persuasive force, a guiding current to change the minds of those who heard, without them recognising that their minds were being thus influenced.

It wasn't magic. It wasn't some sort of divine ability. It was knowledge, the knowledge of how to speak so that other people would listen. It put him in mind of one day in particular, one memory. He did not glance at Thor to see if he followed the same train of thought. What the need?

He bowed his head in feigned contrition, that he need not look them in the eyes as he spoke. Also, because, in such circumstances as these, it always _was_ best to seem genuinely sorry and remorseful. He was not at the Dursleys', where he might expect to be made to apologise for breathing too loud, but he was not in charge here. He had no power here.

But he would always have words. "I made a mistake, an error in judgement—but suppose I had chosen wrong. And even besides that, under the lake—its own little world—it was difficult to think that this was a school, and a competition, and Hermione and the hostages would not be harmed; they never volunteered for this Tournament—although I might remind you that, I, too, never volunteered to compete; much the good it did me!" He gave a bitter laugh. "But I do hope you will forgive me, and not disqualify me for my error.

"How was I to know? It isn't as if any of the hostages had little labels on them, saying, 'hostage: awaiting the rescue of Harry Potter'. I only know Hermione is Krum's hostage, now, through process of elimination. That little girl—Gabrielle, I gather, is Fleur's, being her younger sister. Clearly, Cho was Cedric's. Ron and Hermione are my two best friends—I'd 'sorely miss' _either_ of them, but I wasn't aware that either had any sort of connection at all to Mr. Krum."

He turned to Krum. "My apologies," he said, with a little bow to the elder student, before returning his gaze to the judges. "You should have stuck to personal possessions. Or at the very least, used some sort of waterproof labels. You can't pretend that it's beyond your ability."

With his speech finished (half-speech, half-rant), he leant back, as if indifferent, and wrapt an arm around Luna. He glanced over at Ron and Hermione, at long last, to see Ron staring at him aghast, and Hermione with tears in her eyes, shaking her head.

"Ginny was right: you _are_ a noble prat," Hermione sniffed, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. He rather thought she'd completely misunderstood him.

The judges conferred again, and then turned back to face the crowd. At least they didn't have to take as long, this time. "You are not disqualified, Harry. Relax," came the calm voice of the headmaster.

He stared down at the ground, and said nothing. It _was_ a genuine relief, not to be disqualified. That would have probably meant that he was considered as forfeiting, being unable to continue to compete, which would doubtless hold the same punishment as just refusing to compete. "Binding magical contact", and all that nonsense. He should have stopped to consider that before carrying out his plan, but, well, _hindsight_.

"To Mr. Harry Potter, we award sixty points," said Dumbledore, his voice ponderously slow. Was he…disappointed? Harry's eyes narrowed. Was it that he, Harry, was Dumbledore's pet project, or did he have designs that relied upon Harry's success in the tournament?'

Harry discovered that he had supporters, even amongst the other houses, when they _boo_ed this rating, protesting that he'd done the magic flawlessly, and he was the first to reach the mark—what gave? It was even more surprising to find that amongst them were _all three_ of the other champions. He blinked, startled, at Krum's rather coarse, raspy voice protesting that Harry had meant well, and why were they punishing him when he'd met with the most success?

"I owe you again, Harry," Cedric said, under the clamour, as he turned to face him, holding out a hand to shake. "It isn't right that they're punishing you for doing well. What are they thinking? And I think I owe you double. Is it just me, or are you pulling all the weight for Hogwarts?"

Harry shook his hand, but Fleur was immediately standing, rising to her feet with a casual fluid grace. "What are you thinking? I did not complete the task, but I received a higher score than Harry, who did better than any of us?"

"Harry's actions influenced the scores of the other contestants, making their performance more difficult to judge. Karkaroff has argued that his actions constitute sabotage, and that he should be disqualified. This was our final compromise," Percy explained, in his default voice: pompous jerk. Maybe he was secretly a Stark, or something.

"_Ooh_," said Fleur, fairly shuddering with rage. She jutted her chin in the air, and turned her back on the judges.

It was a very strange sensation, to have a Hogwarts turning back to face him before close of year, and his own (inevitable) death.

"That concludes the Second Task. The contestants will be taken aside to be instructed on the Final Task at the end of April. Thank you all for your support of the Champions, and your participation in the event," said Dumbledore, and then he canceled the Sonorus Charm, turning back to face the judges.


	96. The Return of Mr Crouch

**Chapter Ninety-Six: The Return of Mr. Crouch**

He didn't realise that he'd neglected to give Hermione the Map with which to catch Skeeter, owing to her absence at the arranged time (amongst other reasons) only when Skeeter's latest article appeared in the paper. Grinning and bearing it constituted taking the high road, which was not Harry's forte at the best of times. Skeeter insulting Luna did not constitute "the best of times". Whatever had happened to her pet project concerning Tom Riddle? Did she need a friendly reminder? Was it all a lost cause?

Hermione did not seem to have a good notion of how she ought to react to his behaviour during the Second Task—that he had saved her, and Ron had helped drag her to shore, a silent show of teamwork that had Ron beaming for days afterwards, and Harry questioning the wisdom of the actions he'd elected to take.

Rita Skeeter was convinced that there was a top secret love triangle amongst Ron, Hermione, and Krum (that was, that Hermione was two-timing Ron with Krum). This libel had Hermione incensed enough to renew her quest, one of many such ongoing, to Make Skeeter Pay.

He hoped that she didn't start handing out anti-Skeeter badges. He was confused enough with just the _Support Cedric Diggory: the real Hogwarts Champion_ badges, and the S.P.E.W. ones.

He thought that, from what Mrs. Weasley had said of her, that Skeeter might even be going easy on him. She _had_ mistaken Luna Lovegood for his girlfriend, but he supposed that that was an easy enough _mistake_ to make. The love triangle thing involving Hermione-the-adulteress, however, was deliberate misinterpretation. He didn't even know whence it had come. Perhaps he should speak with Krum?

Ron didn't like Krum, for some reason, and strongly disapproved of Harry coming anywhere near the boy, which made things even more complicated. Harry had no idea where such sentiment came from: Ron had seemed to have a certain amount of admiration for Krum at the Quidditch World Cup. The only thing he could think of was that Krum had said something to Hermione and Ron after the Second Task. But Hermione had suddenly become shy, and Ron refused to discuss the matter.

Luna had no idea what Krum had said or done, although Harry had asked her. She just blinked at him, with her wide, wide, eyes, and said that it was Ron and Hermione's problem, and that he shouldn't interfere.

He hadn't meant to be the interfering busybody. Indeed, he hadn't even realised that that had been what he had been doing. It was, however, an incontrovertible fact, that Ron could look after himself.

He and Luna spent some time considering what the Third Task was liable to be—from one extreme, to the other extreme, and the Third Task would be somewhere between. Fire for one, water for two, which left earth as the most probable of the remaining classical elements. Seen, heard, unknown, to unseen, unheard, known, to…what, exactly, lay between? Half a warning as to what was to come, with the audience able to sort of see and hear what was going on?

But hey, maybe he would finally get to use the Sword of Gryffindor outside of practice fighting against Thor. Not that that wasn't challenge enough—Thor had taken an exceptionally short time to adjust and start winning every match. Victory was nice while it lasted, but he'd never expected it to last long. And between his continued magic duels against Thor (Harry could be counted upon to win these, as Thor'd once said), and his study with Mother, and his experimentation with Stephen, his magic reserves were deeper than they'd been in a long time. It was, doubtless, time to complicate matters, use more complex spells. He didn't care to draw on the subtle magic of the Room of Requirement, but the knowledge of how to tap into an uncorrupted source was there for him to use, if ever the situation called for it.

He went easy on his studies, this year, mind focused mainly on how to survive the Third Task. What time he didn't spend on that, or with Luna, was spent planning for the coming wars, or, very rarely, compiling his research for a cure to Sirius's malady that he would understand. He'd missed two Hogsmeade visits this school year, which was a pity, but necessary. He needed to be ready.

After Skeeter's article came out, Harry decided that he might as well ask Luna to be his girlfriend. Neither of them were exactly normal according to the standard definitions, anyway, so she probably wouldn't think that this came out of the blue. She might even have followed his train of thought. She treated his proposal with greater flippant apathy than he had expected from a girl. He saw her point of view, he thought; it was more of a formality than anything else. Why should she care one way or the other?

Moody seemed to be laying low, Snape and Karkaroff were still panicking about something-or-other becoming more pronounced, Fleur and Viktor Krum continued to be friendly (or, in Krum's case, friendly to Harry, at least), and Neville took umbrage to people making fun of the mentally ill. That was very progressive of him. He was ahead of his time.

Speaking of "ahead of time", Stephen was being very close about his knowledge of the future, and Professor Trelawney, by contrast, was convinced that he was a seer, hiding knowledge of the future _from her_. All because he passed out (from sleep deprivation, maybe?) in the middle of class, and had a not-dream concerning Riddle and Wormtail. And that was about all that he remembered about it after fifteen minutes. But Sirius had told him to contact Dumbledore if his scar twinged again with Riddle far-distant, and thus, to Dumbledore's office he went.

Whithersoever Dumbledore had gone, he'd left in a hurry, not quite shutting the door to his cabinet after him, so that the glow of the pensieve's thought-substance caught the light and shone, drawing the attention of any visitors.

It was almost as if he _wanted_ Harry to go snoop.

Nah. Harry studiously ignored the pensieve, saying his customary hellos to Fawkes, and then turning, with heavy heart, to the Sorting Hat. He wouldn't like the ensuing conversation, he was sure. Perhaps he could put it off forever, perhaps not.

He had forgotten that Mother had suggested the Sorting Hat as a means to teach himself occlumency. He'd, indeed, quite forgotten it was one of the many things he was frantically studying in preparation for the coming wars. But the Sorting Hat was good at stirring back up the turbulent waters of his memory. This time was no different.

_Back again, eh, Your Grace?_ asked the Sorting Hat, as if they'd parted ways only yesterday. It had been over a year, but you'd never know it.

Were he not wearing the Hat, he would have buried his head in his hands. Amazing, how self-conscious a talking hat could make you feel.

_I daresay my mind makes more sense to you than me,_ he began. _Perhaps you could help me solve any of a number of current dilemmas I am trying to find the answers to. But I suppose, first and foremost, I am doing this by way of __being__ an apology to you._

_I don't hear you apologising,_ the Sorting Hat commented. Harry folded his arms, and noticed that he could see, sort of—the inside of the Hat no longer covered his eyes. The power of legilimency—the ability of mind to override all awareness of "present"—was the reason that he hadn't realised earlier. Interesting. In that way, it was almost like the Imperius—

He flinched.

_Ah. Yes, I see. I quite agree with your assessment of Moody, I must say. Alas, even were you to convince Dumbledore to have a conversation with me, I would not be able to share what knowledge I have gleaned from your mind. You live in troubled times, Your Grace. You should pay greater heed to the prophecy._

He paused, sitting up straighter unconsciously. _What more have __**you**__ figured out, Hat?_

The Hat gave its engine-won't-turn-over impression, and he scowled. He was very aware of the desk around him, the quiet whirring of Dumbledore's myriad contraptions, and the snoring portraits of a hundred previous headmasters (and headmistresses). He did not want to tune it out, but neither could he let it fill his thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

_I shall speak of it to Thor,_ _but what do __**you**__ believe 'The Power He Knows Not' to be?_ he asked, after a minute. It was an important question to ask, and he knew that the Sorting Hat was aware of the thoughts that underlay this one, bubbling up to the surface, but not popping. Did he want them to pop? What did he _want_ the "power the dark lord knows not" to be? What did he want to _be_?

_What do you believe it to be, in truth, my lord? For whatever you decide informs the road you shall take, and that road, in turn, will lead to the fulfilment of the prophecy. Thoughts shape actions, after all. The 'power the Dark Lord knows not' is a vague phrase…malleable. It is any power that you possess that he does not know about._

_Dumbledore would say it is love. But, Riddle has heard of love. He knows it._

The Sorting Hat didn't argue. Harry had to press on,

_Does that not suggest that it is…something else?_

_He doesn't know about your mother, either_, the Sorting Hat reminded him. _Your lack of denial is good progress, but don't be so swift in casting everything in the same light, you know._

Mother. It was painful to think of her, to know that her death lay in both the future, and the past. Harder to think of her, now, than it had been when last he and the Sorting Hat had spoken. Would he lose her, when he reached the age of majority, and moved out of the Dursleys'? Or did he not need that connection; did he suffer them for naught?

He duly redirected his thoughts to all that he'd learnt of Sirius's health, the possible repercussions of his stint in Azkaban.

_You must practice occlumency_, the Hat said, suddenly. There had been a lull in the conversation, but now it spoke again. _It will not ward off the Imperius Curse, but it will help to protect you from outside influences. Your recent dream shows your susceptibility to them. Dumbledore must be informed of what you have seen, but do not consider this glimpse into Riddle's mind a gift. It is not. It is a warning. Take it as such._

And now, he was being lectured by a Hat. He frowned, and scowled, looking down at Dumbledore's desk, covered by those spindly silver instruments. He glared at them, as if to make them burst into flame. Unfortunately, his peripheral vision was completely blocked, meaning that the desk was the only thing he _could_ stare at.

_Very well, then,_ he said, and began to bend his will and focus to pushing the Hat out of his mind, keeping his thoughts secure from it. At the same time, he tried to settle his mind and his emotions, knowing that that was the key to using _real_ occlumency, rather than the kind that was heavily supplemented by the _other_ kind of magic.

He gave the Hat no warning; none was needed, and a sort of pitched combat ensued, fought within the confines of his own mind. It might have gone on for hours, but then the Sorting Hat was lifted off his head. The Sorting Hat _had_ been trying all sorts of tricks to break his concentration, and therefore, he'd dismissed its attempts to warn him that someone had entered the Headmaster's Office.

His inability to both notice them for himself whilst maintaining his defences against the Hat did not strike him as an auspicious sign.

"I was practicing occlumency," Harry pouted, folding his arms again. "It seems imperative, with Voldemort about to return."

"I assume, however, that that was not your purpose in coming to my office," Dumbledore said, in a mild tone laced with generous dollops of amusement. Harry didn't need to look to know that the old man was twinkling like mad.

"No," Harry conceded.

_Next week_, he vowed to himself. He'd just have to add one more thing to practise to his already busy schedule. In the meantime, he needed to do what he'd come here for. He sighed, and began to lead into to describing his dream to Professor Dumbledore….

* * *

"I would like to talk to you somewhere, in private," Krum said, as Harry stayed still for a second too long, digesting the news. Yes, he supposed a maze _did_ fit the criteria of being between visible and invisible, between known and unknown, and as earth, it was well-confined to a single classical element. Luna had called it again. And hey! the Sword of Gryffindor was liable to finally see actual use.

He had a little over a month to prepare, because the Third Task was set just at the end of term, when he'd ordinarily be concerned with cumulatives. He and Cedric were exempt from end-of-year exams, however. In Cedric's case, said exams were N.E.W.T.s, which sort of raised the question of when he'd be taking those. What with how integral they were in finding a job, and all.

He was wondering how Cedric would arrange to take these exams—or whether he was, perhaps, also exempt from those; being a Champion at such a famed tournament might count for whatever N.E.W.T.s tested, anyway—when Krum spoke. Fleur disappeared with a smile and a wave. Cedric lingered, with a nod, and walked off on his own. Bagman had already disappeared. It wasn't apparation—it was whatever tricky slinking usually got him out of scuffles with goblins. You turned your back on him, and he slunk off. Harry could do the same thing, of course, but he generally didn't, especially not without good cause. The more aces you had up your sleeves, the better. That was another of the reasons he'd prevailed upon his Mother not to use the armour.

Krum led him off a discreet distance, and then turned to Harry again, looking rather awkward and unsure of himself, for an internationally famous quidditch player.

"Your friend, Hermione, is a very interesting girl," he began. "What is between you and Hermione?"

He noted that Krum completely butchered Hermione's name, which was not sufficient grounds for the sheer ire that radiated from Hermione and Ron concerning Krum. However, the truth might now be uncovered.

"She's my best friend. Like a younger sister. Except that she's dating my older brother, Ron Weasley."

Krum, understandably, was even more confused by Harry's attempts to cut through the Twenty Questions game that Harry could sense starting.

So, Harry had to explain, in simplified, purely muggle terms, the connections amongst the trio.

"Then you believe that she would never be interested in being in a romantic relationship with anyone else? Your friend Ron must be a truly impressive person."

"Words don't do him justice. I'm sure he'd have been chosen, fourteen or no, if he'd had a chance to enter his name in the Goblet. In fact, there are few people who can compete with him for sheer heroic valour. Gryffindor through and through, you know."

"Your friend, Hermione, is a very interesting girl," Krum said, returning the conversation back to its original focus with a Ronnish determination. "Perhaps she would be interested in talking about schools. We could be friends, I believe. That is the point of this Tournament—"

"As long as you don't hit on her, and explain your intentions to Ron and Hermione, _and_ you mean that, I'm sure you'll be fine. I'll back you up, even. It's taken _forever_ for them to admit that they like each other, after all, and they're probably protective of their relationship in that new-couples way. As long as you don't try to come between them, I'm sure they'll give you a chance. Talk to Ron about quidditch, and Hermione about Durmstrang," he suggested.

Krum wasn't listening, which, at first, was galling. Harry was making an honest attempt to build some bridges, here. Then, he saw where Krum was looking, and what—or rather _whom_—he was looking at.

"Is that…Mr. Crouch?" Harry asked, striding over in that direction, with Krum trailing behind.

"Dumbledore…must tell Dumbledore—you, you're a student at Hogwarts, yes?"

Crouch didn't even recognise Harry. Was this part of the malady that had kept him at home, away from the Tournament he'd helped to reinstate?

"I am. Krum isn't," Harry said, inclining his head towards Krum to include him, without taking his eyes off Crouch. He wasn't sure he trusted anyone who kept sneaking into school, despite, ostensibly, being too…indisposed, to judge the Tournament.

He did look rather…strange. Not bedridden or physically ill in any way, but his usually pristine clothes were torn, and his hair was full of snags and brambles, his eyes wild.

Then, he started talking to a nearby tree, calling it "Weatherby"—his name for Percy—to which Krum raised his eyebrows, asking the silent question of _Why are we listening to this madman_?

But….

A chill of foreboding settled in Harry's chest. Perhaps Crouch was merely mad, but as they made to leave, he seemed to come to himself. Desperation brightened his eyes, as he clutched at the two of them.

"No—get Dumbledore. I have to tell him—have to warn him. It's my fault. My son, my fault. I should have—I shouldn't have…now Harry Potter is in danger…all my fault. Get Dumbledore, he needs to know."

And there was that, too. A mind divided in half—one controlled, composed, confident, calling for Percy to fulfil his daily tasks, or whatever. The other wild, unkempt, but focused, certain, desperate.

One in its element, one out of it. There were many things it could be: madness, as he'd been told; overwork from the recent stress of the Tournament, and losing Winky; but also, and he knew this because of his research, _the Imperius Curse_. One of the few warning signs that a victim was fighting the curse was this odd duality to their behaviour.

He couldn't take the risk. He turned to Krum, turned back to Crouch. If he were under the Imperius, they couldn't possibly leave him alone. They'd have to do as he said—they'd have to bring him to Dumbledore. He seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings, as if he recognised that Harry were British, but nothing else, and Krum…he didn't even recognise _Krum_.

And, wait a minute, _what_ was this about a son?

Now, Harry didn't like Crouch on the best of days—he'd been the one to send Sirius to Azkaban without even the dignity of a trial, but alarm bells were ringing. A warning, _Harry Potter is in danger_, Crouch, whose pride Sirius had inveighed against, begging for help, admitting he'd made a mistake, asking to see Dumbledore. That dream, only a couple of weeks past.

They had to get him to Dumbledore, one way or another. He didn't dare to leave Crouch alone, and he didn't dare to leave Krum alone, not if there were any chance that Crouch would attack him. If only one of the others had _stayed_.

Again, time seemed to slow to a crawl, to give him time to think, as it had at the end of second year, when he'd needed to plan how to handle Lockhart. He thought fast.

"I think we need to put off this conversation for a later date, Viktor. This is just a guess, but Mr. Crouch might be under the Imperius Curse—in which case he is a threat to himself and others. I'm not about to leave you alone with him, so let's bind him and take him to Dumbledore. I'll lead the way. If he tries anything, shout."

He pointed his wand at Crouch, just in case, and muttered, "_Incarcerous_."

"Headmaster Karkaroff is closer," Krum began. Harry shook his head

"He asked specifically for Dumbledore. There must be a reason. Also, I don't think I like your headmaster much. He was rather dismissive of me when we first met."

Dread settled in deep, when they stumbled across Moody in the halls leading to Dumbledore's office. He caught sight of Crouch and, understandably, his one good eye widened. Then, he made what seemed to be an attempt to head them off.

"No unauthorised individuals allowed on Hogwarts grounds, Potter. Basic safety precautions, you know."'

"We're just taking him to see Dumbledore," Harry retorted, resisting the urge to fold his arms—he needed freedom of movement, the ability to act at a moment's notice. "And he can't be 'unauthorised', when he's one of the judges of the Triwizard Tournament. Bagman's only recently gone. Let us through."

"He may be dangerous," Krum began, but Harry glared at him, and he was smart enough to realise that, for some reason, Harry wanted him to keep quiet.

"Let me take him to Dumbledore, then," Moody offered, and Harry had to force himself not to narrow his eyes in suspicion. All those little tells.

"Begging your pardon, professor, sir, but every time I try to leave him, he gets worse. I think we need to escort him to Dumbledore personally. If you think it will help, you can join us."

Moody visibly considered the offer, his expression, to the extent that Harry could read it, carefully blank. His gaze traveled over the trio, and Harry forced himself to relax.

"Go on, then, Potter, Krum. I'll alert the other professors to the situation, in case he tries anything."

He stumped away. Harry stared after him. He cocked his head, considering, and then turned back to Krum.

They were only halfway to Dumbledore's office when the green light hit Crouch, who fell down, dead.

Neither he nor Krum could pinpoint the origin of that light, and Harry wished that he had had his seventh sense open. But it was too late for that, now. All that he could do was think of what Crouch had said, and repeat it to Dumbledore as faithfully as he could.


	97. Lead-Up to the Main Event

**Chapter Ninety-Seven: Lead-Up to the Main Event**

"What you should have done," Sirius corrected him, "is brought the bloody _mirror_ with you."

"And how would _that_ have helped, precisely?" Harry asked, in his pleasantest voice, which Sirius seemed to find less intimidating than did most of his other friends.

"I could have alerted Dumbledore!" Sirius said, arms crossed, as he stared Harry down.

"And he would still have come too late to speak with Mr. Crouch. Unless you have the ability to detect and block the Killing Curse, there is nothing you could have done. I _possess_ the ability, but using my seventh sense to any useful capacity tends to stifle my other senses. There is only so much data the human brain can process, after all."

"There was nothing you could have done, kiddo," Sirius said, with a completely different tone. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It's only…all this news…tell me what he said again?"

Harry turned to Ron. "Nothing much. He mentioned his son, said that I was in danger, but didn't seem to recognise that _I_ was the Harry Potter he wanted to warn Dumbledore was in danger, and said something about…something being his fault. He was not terribly coherent."

"Perhaps he's just gone mad—" Sirius said, but it was clear that he didn't believe it, himself. His voice warbled. No one had to say: but then, why murder him?

"We've lost our chance to learn more from that source," said Harry, frustrated enough by this turn of events to slam his fist into an end table. He was not generally disposed towards acts of violence—that was Ron's thing, but he had his moments, and now was one of them.

"But we _have_ learnt something important," said Hermione, very quietly, as if she didn't dare to speak louder, which was entirely possible. "We learnt that there _is_ a servant of—of You-Know-Who, working at Hogwarts."

"We already knew that," said Harry, trying to keep his voice in the _mildly_ scathing levels, rather than abrasive-as-ropeburn. "Someone entered me into the Triwizard Tournament, after all. As Moody put it, 'Someone clever enough to fool a powerful magical object like the Goblet, to make it forget that there are only three schools, and not four', which doesn't sound as if he's bragging _at all_."

"You still think it's Moody, then?" asked Sirius, casting a shrewd glance in Harry's direction.

"And the Sorting Hat agrees with me," Harry said, running a hand through his own hair, tilting his head to the side and leaning against the arm of the sofa.

"When have you spoken to the Sorting Hat?" asked Hermione, and then she stretched, and yawned. "Sorry," she added, as if it were something to be ashamed of, that she was tired after he'd woken her at nine-thirty at night, and then dragged her to the Room of Requirement for a council of war. She was too tired even to properly appreciate the Room, which was saying something.

"Don't apologise, Hermione. I ought to apologise for waking you in the middle of the night. This could have waited." Harry glanced down at the ground, away from Hermione, but he raised his gaze almost immediately to the mirror, which had been made to stand upright on the temporary coffee table.

"Waiting would be a poor choice, given recent events," Ron corrected him, full of wariness, but not dour or grim, as he had been the last few years. There wasn't the tense expectation that Harry would die at any moment, although there perhaps should have been.

"Why would someone with such a clear shot kill Crouch, and not Harry?" asked Sirius. "He's the most obvious target."

The air grew thick as soup at Sirius's pronouncement. It was true, and suspicious.

"They need me alive, for some reason. Sirius, what have you discovered in your research? All I have is a Foe-Glass that shows three figures—two of whom I'm almost certain are Riddle and Wormtail—and a third man, with distinct features even though I've never seen him in my life. Now, _that_ is a mystery. I can't help thinking that he must be the one to have slain Mr. Crouch, who, for all his innumerable faults, nevertheless was never a servant of Riddle's. He must have been in the way, somehow."

"Describe him," Sirius said. "I'll see if I recognise him. I haven't encountered any earth-shattering secrets concerning the Tournament. You already know what the Third Task is. Let me tell you that, given past tournaments, this last one will be the sort that tries your intelligence and wisdom, and not just your physical abilities. You'll have to deal with a broad array of spells and creatures. But that's about as far as the previous tournaments add up. That, and all of them had a Yule Ball. As if that's any use. And most of the spells in the Black Library are full of dark magic—that's no good as far as practise—not that you need more to practise, eh? It seems between your friends and your natural gift for magic, you're all set on that front."

"Harry, have you been practising magic spells _without me_?" asked Hermione. Harry blinked, at her level of indignation.

"Ah. Yes. Come to think of it, I intended to ask if you wished to join us, but as it was, Ron needed instruction anyway, and I thought that I might be able to assist him with the underlying theory behind the magic, and refresh my own memory at the same time. You may join us, if you wish."

"Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't want to impose," said Hermione, voice dripping with sarcasm. Perhaps she was spending too much time around _him_. That was rather more alarming of a thought than the thought of her marrying Ron, someday. Most people hated their in-laws, but Harry thought that he would be very lucky if he ended up with the Weasleys plus Hermione. Stephen seemed to hint that the future lay in that direction.

"Well, Harry?" asked Sirius, leaning back in his chair, away from his mirror. He seemed very focused, despite that.

Harry shrugged, thinking back, remembering as many details as he'd gleaned from the Foe-Glass. Straw blond hair, bright blue eyes, sort of stocky but gaunt—that odd juxtaposition that made him think of Pettigrew.

Sirius looked thoughtful. "I wonder…" he began. "Could it be Barty Crouch—the late _Mr._ Crouch's son? I remember seeing him just the once, as they were dragging him past my cell…but no—" he shook his head firmly. "Now I remember…he died shortly after he arrived in Azkaban. Forget it."

Harry glared at the pretty, red and gold carpeted floor. "He would not be the first dead man to return to life to kill me," he said, and Sirius paused, and then, folding his arms, nodded.

"But suppose he _is_ alive…where has he been hiding?"

Harry shrugged, thinking of the times that he'd seen that name "Bartemius Crouch" on the Map. Perhaps it _hadn't_ been Crouch Senior sneaking into the school.

Where was he the rest of the time? Because he was neither student nor professor, the Map would have little reason to track him, unless he were close to Harry's location. There were so many people at Hogwarts at any given time that to show every ink figure for every inhabitant of the school would crowd the Map to overflowing. It relied primarily upon local data—whoever was in the vicinity—with only the figures of McGonagall, Peeves, Filch, Mrs. Norris, Dumbledore, and Snape permanently marked. It kept up surprisingly well, but even it had its limits. This was one of them.

"You have an idea?" asked Sirius, narrowing his eyes.

"He _has_ appeared, perhaps on the Map. I had previously assumed that Mr. Crouch was sneaking back into Hogwarts—perhaps he was—or perhaps…."

There was no way to prove this one way or the other.

All pulling out the Map in order to examine it told them was that the Map didn't recognise those who were located within the Room of Requirement.

* * *

"I guess since the Third Task is in a few weeks, you won't be around much longer," Malfoy began, in an attempt at gloating.

"I survived the first two," Harry interrupted with a shrug. "I don't see why this one should be any different."

"Oh, the last one is the hardest," Malfoy said, in his usual offhand manner, and Harry pretended that Sirius and Remus hadn't agreed upon that fact, not to mention that it was blatantly obvious. Still, "harder" did not necessarily mean "deadlier".

"So, what are you and your girlfriend doing by this statue of the one-eyed witch?"

Harry blinked, nonplussed for the moment, mind mostly fixated upon the knowledge that Malfoy must not know about the secret path to Hogsmeade. Then, his mind caught up to what Malfoy was saying.

"Luna isn't here," he said, cocking his head in feigned curiosity. "And I hope you aren't insinuating that _you_ are my girlfriend," he added. "I'm not interested in men, anyway. If you broke up with Pansy, it's probably because she couldn't stand the thought of dating a man who spent more time on his hair than she did hers. I'm sorry to hear about the breakup, but I'm sure you'll find someone else…eventually…well, no, probably not, but I'm not interested, either. And I refuse to do pity dates. You're out of luck."

"Pansy and I have _not_ broken up, and my family is _not_—" Malfoy said, inadvertently confirming the rumours that they'd been dating at all. Harry wondered if Skeeter were watching, but mostly, he was blowing off steam, and Malfoy was the most convenient target for his wrath. What with how he was a future Death Eater, and had no soul, and all.

"Ah, relationship trouble, then," Harry said, nodding in fake understanding. Ron relaxed at the realisation that Harry was, obviously, safe.

Malfoy's face was beginning to grow very red, and his facial muscles were tightening. It was the next best thing to squashing Malfoy's face for real. Ron seemed to agree, standing there with his arms folded, glaring at Malfoy.

"I am _not_ interested in dating you, Potter," Malfoy said at last, with a heated glare. Crabbe and Goyle gave synchronised sycophantic nods behind him, which Malfoy neither saw nor noticed. "I was _talking_ about _Weasley_."

Harry frowned, and cocked his head to the other side. "But that makes no sense. Ron looks nothing like Luna—unlike you, he isn't even blond." He glanced aside to Ron at this remark. Only Ron could be expected to hear the injoke embedded in Harry's refutation. He grinned, and Ron relaxed, just slightly, shaking his head in wonderment at how Harry had tangled the conversation up for such a trivial reason.

Malfoy's glare intensified, until it could bore holes through the limestone of which Hogwarts was built.

"Anyway, this is Ron, and not Luna. I'm not sure how you confused them—perhaps you need glasses: they don't look very similar at all. You would think that you would recognise him, at least—he is an official Weasley, after all. Perhaps you need to refresh your memory of your friends and enemies. It wouldn't do for you to confuse the two."

"Besides, Ron is practically my older brother—I'm an unofficial Weasley adoptee, you know, and I wouldn't feel comfortable dating my older brother even if both of us _were_ attracted to men. Or, either of us. Dating a sibling is nasty.

"Oh!" he said, eyes widening in exaggerated realisation. "I'm sorry, I forgot that's how things are usually done in non-_blood traitor_, noble-type pureblood families like the Malfoys—"

Malfoy twitched, and then drew his wand, and Harry drew and aimed at Malfoy. "I wonder how many wands your father will be willing to buy for you," he said, pretending to consider the question.

Malfoy took the unspoken message, and hesitated. "Or, you could leave. Now," Harry said, with his pleasantest smile. Malfoy glanced down at the wand in his hand—his…what, fifth?—and then back at Harry.

"Anyway, guys aren't my type. Sorry, Malfoy. Better luck next time. Maybe you should try Crabbe or Goyle. They seem willing to do anything you want." Harry's stance was casual, as if Malfoy posed no threat—which was more or less accurate.

"_Furnunculus_!" Malfoy cried, at his wit's end, but Harry dodged, and swiftly closed the distance between the two of them, grabbed Malfoy's latest weapon, wrenching it from his hands. Crabbe and Goyle would have entered the fray, but Ron stood between them and Malfoy, and they must have been smarter than they looked (which, in retrospect, was obvious: they'd never have passed first year, otherwise).

With no ready means of continuing his assault, Malfoy took a step back, glancing around the hall, and retreated.

"My father will hear about this!" he called out, as per the usual, as he marched stiffly away. Harry shrugged, glancing after him, and then turned on his heel, and casually sauntered away in the opposite direction.

None were the wiser of the secret passage, so it was worth Hermione's impending lecture. Perhaps, one of these days, Malfoy would learn to stop picking fights with them. Those never ended well for him.

* * *

Predictably, the figures of his Foe-Glass were clear as day the morning preceding the Third Task. He knew he'd never seen the blond man before, and yet his image in the Glass was distinct, identifiable, _specific_. He studied it, the better to recognise the next time he saw it (perhaps they'd crossed paths one day in Diagon Alley, or _Knockturn_ Alley, and he didn't recall?). He glanced at Wormtail, standing there with mist covering his torso, fading out to nothingness, in a manner reminiscent of Hogwarts's ghosts below that. He barely even glanced at the third figure, whom he'd expected all along—the man with the short, neat black hair and red eyes. The time of their confrontation was at hand.

It was, after all, June Fourth. But he'd made arrangements, just in case. He'd known well in advance the date of each of the Tasks, but he'd also known, without Sirius _needing_ to remind him, that this task was Riddle's last best chance to get to him. And, in retrospect, it made the most sense to wait for the Final Task, when tensions were running high, but everyone had been lulled into a false sense of security (nothing had happened the previous two; it was safe).

Everyone, that was, except for Harry's inner circle: he, Ron, Hermione, Sirius, and Remus, were all on high alert. And, they had backup, arriving later.

He _was_ genuinely surprised when, after dinner, he and the Champions were all taken aside to spend some time with their families before the Final Task (this must be a holdover from days of _fatal_ tasks). He'd dragged Ron into the mix, as well ("he _is_ family, you know," he told any who protested), which was just as well, considering who was waiting for him in the tent set up by the quidditch pitch. Sure, there were Sirius, and Remus, and Tonks, who anymore seemed almost surgically attached to Remus, but there were also the Weasleys—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill, and Charlie, even, although they barely knew Harry. Mrs. Weasley tried her best to smother him in a hug, until Mr. Weasley gently peeled her off. Ron stared, clearly at a loss. Harry laughed.

"Hey, kiddo. Thought we'd surprise you before the big event," Sirius said, with a smirk. "Did it work?"

"I have never known Hogwarts to be so hospitable to visitors," said Harry, in return, smiling despite the hidden dig in Sirius's words. "I _am_ surprised. It is good to see all three of you, face to face, again."

Sirius slung an arm around his shoulder, and nodded at Ron. Harry knew better than to relax, despite how many people he now knew to be looking out for him. He glanced over Remus, and Sirius, and Tonks, and met Ron's gaze. It was as if a hidden message had been sent amongst those in the know.

He spent an hour with his quasi-family before Ginny, Fred, George, and Hermione joined them. In that time, he got to wander around the temporary campsite (trying not to think of the Quidditch World Cup), meeting Krum's parents, and being introduced to Fleur's parents, and saying hello to Gabrielle.

"_Hello, Mr. Potter_," said Gabrielle, in a quiet rush of French. "_Thank you for saving me. Fleur speaks highly of you. She told __me__ that I should practice my English __by__ talking to you._"

Despite these words, that was all that she said.

"I must apologise for Gabrielle," said Fleur. "She can be a bit shy, and you are a celebrity. I think I shall get a job here in England, to improve my English. English-speakers are always in demand, and you have a lovely country."

Cedric wanted Harry to talk to his parents, as well. He insisted that he'd done his best to make his Dad contain himself, but he needed to check. Whilst still being very proud of his only son, Mr. Diggory was friendly enough to Harry, which was just as well, as, with the Tournament's final task, and an impending confrontation with Riddle, swift approaching, he was all nerves and reflexes. Amos Diggory, at least, did not bring up the Quidditch Match of Doom once. He seemed quite friendly, if a bit exuberant. Mrs. Diggory hung on his arm, rolling her eyes at her husband's antics, and ruffling Cedric's hair.

But mostly, Harry spent time in the tent assigned to him and his, either subtly conferring with Sirius and Remus (and Ron), or hanging out with Ron and Hermione. He wished that this sort of thing could happen more often without threat of his imminent (and inevitable) demise hanging over them—although he could have done without Mrs. Weasley's rebuffing Hermione for cheating on Ron. And this was the woman who had first put Harry on guard against Skeeter. Didn't she _know_ better than to believe whatever that woman wrote?

Harry quietly handed over the Map, which he was sure only Sirius and Remus noticed him do. He ignored their incredulous stares with a smile. They either trusted his judgement, or they didn't. They sensibly took his implication, and asked no questions. That was good.

Because time flies when you have something you dread coming, _and_ while you're having fun, Harry found that, in what felt a manner of minutes, he was being called up to the starting point of the maze, along with the other Champions. The ones who'd actually signed up for this.

He shook his head, and _focused_. Adrenaline was a force that seemed to slow the world down, to allow him to think through important moves before he made them, as at the end of second year, when he'd had to confront Lockhart and then Riddle. It filled him with icy calm, as he asked Mother to restrain herself one last time.

_Wait for the confrontation with Riddle, which is sure to come,_ he asked of her. He would conserve as much of his strength as he could spare for that confrontation. This Task was sure to sap much of his energy—they were not anticipated to have to fight "You-Know-Who" tonight, after all, but he could almost _feel_ the impending confrontation. It would happen _tonight_. Good thing he'd been practicing—with the Sorting Hat, with Thor, with Stephen, with Mother, on the last nights of the month, and even alone. He would need all of it, he was sure. Tonight. Riddle would wait until the Third Task had worn him out to pick a fight with him. He was no fool, unfortunately.

Harry barely paid attention as Bagman introduced the Final Task. He wondered whether or not Mr. Crouch's death had been in the news. Crouch had once been almost a candidate for Minister of Magic: he was not obscure. But the press had kept other things quiet; who knew? The Ministry seemed to have some control over the press, which was never a good sign.

One problem at a time, please.

Harry would be the last one into the maze—a superficial problem. He had no desire to win the Cup: he had no need of money, or fame. He was not desperate to prove himself to the wizarding population, either. The people who mattered were either on another world, or right here, with him, concerned for his well-being, but not egging him on. He'd take his time, and simply try to survive, and conserve his energy. Although, of course, he knew that he also had to _try_. Whatever constituted giving this his best effort. What a balancing act!

Krum and Cedric entered the maze first, tied as they were for first place, and then Fleur, with an offhand wave as she marched into the maze. That left him all alone at the entrance, which suddenly didn't seem that great of an idea. Moody was one of the people patrolling the maze, after all. But…as he was directly in the audience's line of sight, right now, Moody would not dare to try anything, until he was in the maze.

That thought was Bagman's cue to send him in.


	98. Everyone Loves a Maze

**Chapter Ninety-Eight: Everyone Loves a Maze**

It was surprisingly dark and close inside the maze. There might, almost, not have been a sky up above.

Or ground underfoot. Somehow, that particular phobia had been granted more power by his acknowledgement of his own identity. He'd noticed it, too, that night at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

It hit him particularly hard, now, with the future a clear, almost tangible, threat ahead. Today was another day of reckoning. Perhaps falls, and redemption, and an endless array of stars, were closer to the fore of his mind than they should have been.

He forged ahead through the maze, using that "Point Me" spell that Hermione had found in her research, leading deeper and deeper into the maze. And, of course, it wasn't enough for it to _just_ be a maze—of course not. It was filled with all manner of things, from Hagrid's last remaining blast-ended skrewt, which Cedric was kind enough to warn him about, to an odd patch of ground that inverted ground and sky, which would have driven him to panic attacks, had he been the sort inclined to panic attacks.

They might have designed that one _specifically for_ him. It was hard to pinpoint which, exactly, was worse for his mental health—the inverted patch of ground in his already star-strewn world, or the boggart-dementor he encountered shortly thereafter. Had they taken a survey of their candidates' worst fears when designing this maze, or something? He'd never been asked to fill one out, but there must have been other ways….

He shook his head, determined to focus on the task at hand. He leant against the hedges, half-wishing that they were like Sleeping Beauty's hedges. His death might be better than what they'd end up with if they kept putting him through this…nonsense.

_Show no weakness_. At the same time, he wasn't about to act like _Thor_. He opened his sixth and seventh senses—just enough to get something of the lay of the land. He couldn't afford the distraction that would be caused by opening them further. Human beings weren't designed for so much sensory input. Focus too much on one sense, and you risk ignoring data from the others. He needed his eyes and ears open, at the very least. Those were his first warnings for most things.

Like Fleur's scream. He was about to backtrack to find her, when he heard Cedric's voice up ahead, saying, "What the hell has gotten into you? What do you think you're doing?"

The use of any oath by the normally polite, mild-mannered Hufflepuff caught Harry's attention, immediately. This was no ordinary trial. He must be talking to Krum—unless Moody or someone had infiltrated the maze—but then, why would they go after Cedric?

He made his way around the corner (the maze seemed to dampen and muffle noise; he should have realised that Cedric would be nearby).

One glance at the scene—Krum had Cedric under the Cruciatus? That couldn't be right…—and Harry pointed his wand at Krum, with a swift "_stupefy_!", before turning to Cedric, who lay on the ground in the middle of a clearing—or whatever you called those opener patches in a maze, wherein half of the traps seemed to have been laid. He glanced around the clearing, and held out a hand.

"What happened?" he asked. "I heard Fleur scream a little while ago, and now—"

"He just attacked me out of nowhere!" Cedric said, his eyes wild and wide. He was shaking all over. Harry could empathise. "I didn't think the Tournament was _that_ important to him. He seemed like a decent enough bloke, before."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Yes. You're right. I was alone with him, even, after Bagman explained the Final Task to us, and he would have had the perfect opportunity to do away with me then, as Sirius insisted upon pointing out to me. Yet, he did not. His behaviour doesn't fit with what either of us have observed. I rather suspect that something else is going on here. Perhaps you heard about Mr. Crouch's death. Someone seemed to have put him under the Imperius—and then gone to great lengths to cover it up. I wonder…atypical behaviour is often the only warning that someone is under that Curse."

He raised his wand, sending up a volley of red sparks, as they had been told to do. Then, he turned to Cedric, whose breathing had evened out. He came over to stand next to Harry, looking down at the glassy-eyed Krum. Cedric looked…regretful.

"If that is still your choice, I suggest you take this opportunity to go on ahead. Be thrice cautious, and pay attention to _anything_ that seems even slightly out of the ordinary. Trust no one. I suspect that we are the only two still in the running. I will see whether or not I can find Fleur. Or, if you wish, we could continue on together. Well?"

Cedric blinked. "Er—I'll go on ahead," he said. Clearly, he still hadn't accustomed himself to the idea of them working as a team. Well, then. "Will you—will you be alright on your own?" he asked, his hufflepuff sense of compassion and fairplay shining through. "I mean…looking after the others—that's the guards' job, isn't it?"

Harry looked him dead in the eye with a blank look that Cedric couldn't help thinking creepy. "Yes," he said. "Unfortunately, I am not sure that they can be trusted. Someone put that curse on Krum…and what became of Fleur?"

Cedric swallowed. "I don't think I should leave you alone—"

"Don't worry about me," Harry said, offhanded. "If you want to continue ahead, then do. Although I don't like leaving Krum here unattended, where anything or anyone could get to him, Fleur is also in danger. As long as you keep your guard up, however, you should be fine. You're still conscious, after all. If you need help, give me a shout. I'm moving on, before the guards arrive."

He walked off, trying to trace the scream he'd heard back to its source. It took several wrong turnings, because he couldn't use the "Point Me" spell on people. He ended up opening his sixth and seventh senses wider, and following his intuition's directions. He hated when he ended up doing that, but it was preferable to leaving Fleur in a lurch. She was actually a nice person when she got over her arrogance.

Was that what _he_ was? He didn't think so.

He found her, at last, and, with a glance around, cast another fireworks spell over the unconscious Fleur. For all he knew, she had also been hit with the Imperius, or something, and wasn't safe to wake. He'd leave her care to trained medi-wizards, or healers, or whatever they were called. The Wizarding World seemed to be in one of those transitional times between terms. He straightened up, and then, with a twinge of conscience, thought back to Cedric. Perhaps they shouldn't have separated.

He set off at a run, now, trying to backtrack, faithfully retrace his steps without all the detours, until he reached Cedric. He knew he'd failed when he came across a being with the head of a woman on the body of a lion (with wings!). He knew what these were: who hadn't heard of the riddling sphinx?

"Hello," he began, uncertain. He knew that sphinxes were very clever, and it was difficult to get anything past them. It did not bode well, that one was a guardian. Short of using the _other_ kind of magic, was there _any_ sort of attack that would even harm them? He hadn't come across any such in his research, but the Tournament thus far was largely a matter of improvisation. It was probably where people had learnt how to disable gryphons, and that you bowed to hippogriffs, and that thestrals weren't that dangerous….

She cocked her head at him, and he wondered then, how good her sense of smell was. You wouldn't have thought that a centaur would have that great of a sense of smell, but they'd sniffed him out.

Come to think of it, hadn't he promised to go back and tell them, when he figured himself out? Oops. He'd have to remember to do that…one of these days.

"The quickest way to the Cup is past me," she said. "Answer my riddle, and I will let you pass."

Of course. But…did he _want_ to pass?

"What if I only want some information?" he asked, folding his arms. Her eyes narrowed at the movement. But she'd stopped pacing back and forth at the crossroads, sitting there like a statue of Bastet, gaze fixed upon him.

"There is something different about your smell. Are you even human?" she said, and he could have groaned. He couldn't stop a minor flash of irritation at this development.

He didn't know what the right answer was, and he didn't know what the best answer was. He wished he at least had one or the other. He didn't even know what he _believed_ to be the truth.

"Is that the riddle?" he asked. "Because that one is a bit too difficult for me."

She laughed, and her tail switched behind her. She remembered, then, that he had asked her a question. "As long as your information is not about how to get through this maze, or sensitive information concerning the Tournament or your fellow Champions, I am permitted to answer."

"Someone has been attacking the others," he said, glancing obliquely at her. "Has Cedric Diggory passed this way? Do you know if he is still safe?"

He was the guardian-protector of Hogwarts, and he had the sword to prove it. Time to live up to his house. Were it not for this resolution, he would have cringed at the urgency in his voice. The two halves of his identity warred against one another, again, when he could little afford such internal turmoil.

"I have not seen him," she said, and he bowed to her.

"Thank you for your information. I will find another way."

"He might still be beyond me," she said, as he turned to go. "I patrol only a very narrow patch of this maze."

He turned back to face her, again. "And if I needed to head back out, again?"

"I would not require you to answer another riddle. I only have so many of them, anyway."

He sighed, and leant back, folding his arms. Without the armour to add colour to his ensemble, he looked some sort of mercenary, the sword girt at his side the most noticeable thing about his appearance.

"Let's hear it, then," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Again, her eyes narrowed, her tail twitched, her wings flexed, but she dutifully recited her little riddle-rhyme. Four couplets, an eight-line poem. Had their riddles always been in rhyme, or was that a little gimmick for the Tournament?

"A person who lives in disguise"? Wasn't life laughing at him again? He scowled, reconsidering the merits of this.

"A spyder," he snapped at her, and she smiled at him, moving to stand aside, to let him pass. Instead, he paused, briefly.

"You…won't tell anyone that I smell different, will you?"

"Not if you ask me to keep it quiet," she replied. "We sphinxes do not often give away knowledge for free."

He stared down at her. She'd given _him_ information for free. Perhaps, somehow, that didn't count…? "Then, I ask that you keep your silence in these matters."

Her tail switched again. "As you require, young lord," she said. He was halfway through that open way when she spoke those words, but he had to turn back to face her again. How did everyone seem to _know_?

He had a moment's indecision. "…Keep quiet about that too, please," he said, at last, shaking his head. He needed to find Cedric.

He found an acromantula, first. This was no Chihuahua-sized newly hatched one, either. He was surprised that it didn't tower over the hedges. How had they hidden it from the entrance?

"_Servo stellas_," he whispered, frowning. This was no time to pull his figurative punches. He pointed to the spider. "_Stupefy! Impedimenta! Incendio!_"

The acromantula shrieked and dropped him. "_Lumos_!" he cried, to ensure that the acromantula was unconscious (and if conscious, it would have chittered and fled; unconscious it was), as he caught sight of Cedric Diggory's blond hair rounding the corner. He stopped, seeing that, apparently, Harry had the acromantula in hand. No matter that it had dropped him from a height of about five feet. Or maybe five metres. It was a bit difficult to tell in this light. He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, unable to suppress a bit of a wince.

"Harry! Are you okay?" asked Cedric, with what seemed genuine concern. He looked at the acromantula, out cold, and sidled past it, where it was blocking most of the way.

"I'm fine," Harry lied. In truth, he rather suspected he might have broken his leg. He could work through pain, but….

Cedric's timing, in this instance, was most unfortunate. But for his arrival, he would have used what Mother had taught him of healing. He might do that anyway, come to it, but he wanted to see the Tournament through, first. And if he were previously injured when he came to face Riddle, so much the better, in one respect. It would make the man more likely to underestimate him. But…he'd cross that _bridge_ when he came to it. Nevertheless, when Cedric steadied him so that he didn't fall over, he didn't push him away.

"I found the Cup," said Cedric. "Nothing is guarding it."

"Then why have you not _taken_ it, already?" Harry demanded, at the end of his patience. Cedric, like most people Harry glared at anymore, went utterly still.

"I remembered what you suggested, about this being a team effort. But you—you've done more than any of us, and…and I think you should take it."

_Truth_, said his lie-detecting sense. He tended to ignore it, but this time, it was more or less insightful. Cedric meant it. He'd be turning his back on the sort of glory that Hufflepuff hadn't seen in centuries. He seemed wistful, but stubbornly determined, his face set.

"Grab the Cup, Cedric. I wish only for this night to be over with," Harry said. "For the Tournament to be over with. For the danger to be past."

"You told me about the dragons," Cedric began.

Harry gave a short, bitter laugh. "Everyone else already knew. It was not right that you alone remain ignorant. It set us on even ground." How very hufflepuff it sounded, after the fact. "And you helped me with the egg, which I would never have figured out on my own."

"I had help with that," Cedric said, unable to meet his gaze.

"Someone showed me the dragons," Harry countered. He winced, swaying heavily on his feet.

"And the hostages at the bottom of the lake—I should have stayed to help them all."

"My choice proved that that was a fool's error," Harry said, raising an arm to push Cedric away.

"And you've helped me here—you came through here to check on me; I know you did. You warned me about the threat."

"Anyone with half a conscience would have," Harry said, pushing Cedric back. He stumbled, but regained his footing. Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor, and leant upon it as you would a cane. "If you wish to be of assistance, point at my broken leg—that's the left one—and say _ferula_."

Cedric blinked. "Oh. I think I know that spell. Hang on: _ferula_."

Bandages wrapt themselves around Harry's bad leg, and he took a moment to acclimate himself.

"Much better, thank you. Go ahead, Cedric. I'm not going to be winning any races, on this leg. You deserve the victory. I don't want it."

Cedric sent him an almost shrewd look. "Are you sure you think I'll be safe on my own?" he asked, and Harry at last hesitated. The answer was a _resounding_ "no". Thus far, Cedric had been lucky—but who knew how long that luck could last?

Harry glared at Cedric, who seemed to realise that he'd won. Harry sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, again, and they hobbled through the maze in silence, with Harry, sixth and seventh senses wide open now that sensory overload seemed a lesser threat when he would never run fast enough to escape, paying rapt attention to their surroundings, whilst pouring healing magic into his leg in a trickle, hoping that that would be a bit slower to action, and would help to numb the pain. With his leg bound, it would be harder to tell, even if he healed himself fully.

At last they came to the final turning, and Harry grabbed onto a handful of hedge-twigs, as if he were being dragged against his will, or falling, and these were the only things to slow his progress. Cedric frowned.

"Well, there you are. The Triwizard Cup. I'll just wait here while you grab it," Harry said, with a smile, and Cedric turned an incredulous gaze upon him.

"And all this time you've gone on about teamwork!" he cried. "Well, we've gotten this far as a team; we should finish that way, too. If you won't take the Cup, yourself, then at least join me, here."

Harry sighed. This was another stubborn one. He'd have to watch out for this one, too. "Alright, then," he said, giving up. He had to pick his battles, tonight, and this one wasn't worth it. Maybe he could shove the money and fame onto Cedric post factum, somehow. "You're right. We take it on the count of three, then?"

Cedric studied him as if this were all some manner of trick. Harry considered the merits of doing just that, but decided that he'd prefer it if Cedric continued to trust his word.

"On three," Cedric nodded, satisfied. The manoeuvred into a good position, and then Cedric said, again, and quite unnecessarily. "On the count of three, then. One, two, three."

And they each laid a hand on one of the Cup's two handles. Then, predictably, there was a jerking sensation, the feeling of being tightly compressed, which Harry couldn't help analysing, what with how his seventh sense was wide open, and portkeys were a curiosity anyway. Then, they were hitting the cold, hard ground somewhere quite different, with enough force to knock the wind out of Harry, again. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, and opened his eyes.

They were in a graveyard, a place of ill omen. Sorrow and melancholy defined its power—or, as he would later think of it, were born of the ritual being performed within it—and evil lurked nearby.

The first figure of his Foe-Glass appeared in his line of sight, and Harry tensed, as a sharp pain flared from his scar. Cedric was coming to his feet beside Harry, still clutching the Cup, but he let it go when he saw that they were not alone.

"Is this part of the Task, do you think?" he asked Harry, ever hopeful. Harry surged to his feet, stumbling on his raw leg, but he could work through pain.

"No," he said. "This is one of You-Know-Who's traps. Do you trust me, Cedric?"

Cedric paled, looking about the graveyard in which they stood, as if only now noticing it. Perhaps he _was_ only now noticing it. He nodded to Harry, and drew his own wand against the approaching threat.

"Good. Follow my lead, then," Harry said, and turned from Cedric, watching Wormtail. Wormtail was carrying something in his robes, and Harry had a flash of insight, a hint of memory from the two dreams that had so concerned Sirius.

"Kill the spare," said a voice from the bundle in Wormtail's arms. Given the recent murder of Mr. Crouch, when Harry might have been killed instead, there was only one whom he might have meant. Harry interposed himself, as if by accident, between the two, and cocked his head at Wormtail.

"Ah, Wormtail," he said, with his pleasantest smile. "How _delightful_ to see you again. We have _so much_ to catch up on."


	99. Kill the Spare?

**Chapter Ninety-Nine: Kill the Spare?**

"There's no need to put yourself out killing Diggory, you know," Harry said, still with that pleasant smile, which seemed to unnerve Wormtail rather. _Do I remind you of someone, I wonder?_ Harry thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, where he wasn't thoroughly planning out the current moment. Winging it was his strong point, right? There was only one thing to do.

"Don't trouble yourself; I'll do it myself. Then you won't have any distractions from this nice picnic you have planned."

Because they were in a graveyard, in the middle of the night. Really, it _ought_ to have been Hallowe'en.

Having said this, he turned back to face Cedric, who opened his mouth, and said, "What, wait, Harry! You said—"

He never finished his sentence, because Harry had aimed his wand at Cedric even as he'd turned to face him. The beam of green light hit Cedric dead on, and Cedric fell to the ground at the entrance of the cemetery, motionless.

Harry smiled, and turned back to Wormtail and what was probably Voldemort. They seemed a bit thrown by recent events, but that didn't stop Wormtail from hitting him with a stunner as he was turning back to face them. Somehow, that figured.

He awoke a short time later, to find himself tied to a gravestone by means of thick iron chains. It seemed that Riddle had realised that ropes would not avail him.

_Mother_? he asked, now that Cedric Diggory was no longer in the way. When Harry'd lost consciousness, the effects of the Star Preserver spell had worn off, which was a nuisance—he'd have to cast it again to supercharge his spells, and he rather suspected he'd be needing a stronger spell than normal to break through these chains. But…maybe, he could break the headstone instead?

"Bone of the father…unknowingly given, you will revive your son!" Pettigrew cried. Harry opened his seventh sense, and only didn't recoil at the sudden kick of tainted magic because he was bound so tight he couldn't move anything but his head and neck.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see that Pettigrew was directing a stream of white dust into a cauldron positioned near the centre of the graveyard. The dust settled into the cauldron with a flash of white light, and then Pettigrew was hurrying over to him. He blinked when he saw that Harry was awake; he must have expected the stunner to keep him out for longer. This meant that Harry had missed less than he might have expected to otherwise. He was not as far out of the loop.

"Blood of the enemy…forcibly taken…you will resurrect your foe!" cried Pettigrew, and drew a knife down Harry's arm. He caught the blood thus spilt in a vial, and trudged back to this cauldron. Harry kept him in his peripheral vision, and opened his seventh sense, to analyse whatever spells had made these chains, and whatever ones had been used to strengthen the gravestone marker to which he had been bound. He sought in vain for any weakness. He did not like the sound of this ritual.

_The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid…greater and more terrible than ever he was…._

What the effects the blood of a goddess in their ritual?

_Mother, I need the armour,_ he tried, again. He felt his skin begin to burn…no, a deep-seated burning, beneath the skin, running with his blood through veins and arteries and even capillaries, spreading even into the tips of his fingers.

Had his bonds been made of rope, or twine, they would have burnt away. But they were made of iron or steel. The tombstone he was bound to was made of granite, and reinforced, somehow, as he discovered when he strained against the bonds, thinking that if he could not break the thick iron, perhaps the gravestone itself would yield.

He analysed the spells of which the chains were made, found that, unsurprisingly, they were a variant of the familiar _incarcerous_ spell, but with other spells woven in to strengthen the chains, woven individually, into each link—or that was how it appeared. Perhaps a single spell that, when cast, shattered into a hundred pieces, and each took refuge in a different link of the chain.

He turned his mind's eye to the stone behind him, found to his frustration that it was hardly better than the chains. The spirit of this graveyard was against him. For whatever reason, it actively veiled the spells cast on the tombstone, and he had to try to bypass it.

"Flesh of the servant…willingly given, you will restore your master!" Pettigrew gibbered, distracting Harry from his task.

He sighed, and refocused his attention, but he knew, even then, that he was trying to split his focus in too many directions. Sight and sound, his sixth sense currently dormant, but his seventh sense flooded with information. He'd opened it as wide as he could, lest he miss any important detail. It came at the cost of lessened awareness of what was going on around him.

But he still noticed—his attention still snapped to the scene unfolding around him—when his seventh sense flared in warning. A sense of dots connected to one another, an unbroken circle, told him that the ritual was complete. It was too late to foil.

He turned to see Riddle stepping from the cauldron, looking quite different from how he had in the Foe-Glass. Gone were the classic looks that had given him such power in his youth. This version had no nose, as the wraith had had no nose, back at the end of first year, hairless as a snake, with eyes that seemed almost to glow, thin, and bony, long-fingered.

He took stock of this new body, studied it, and then drew his wand, to torture Peter Pettigrew. Harry considered the merits of tuning him out to focus on breaking the spells that still held him prisoner, against the need to know what the enemy was doing. A constant, sharp ache, coursing through his body, focusing in on his scar, ensured that he would not be able to muster the concentration to even try. The latter won out.

"Hold out your arm, Wormtail," Riddle said, when he finally deigned to lift the Cruciatus. Pettigrew lay there, a blubbering wreck, but then he held out a bleeding stump of an arm, to which the hand missing a finger had once been attached. Oh. "Flesh of the servant," hmm?

Riddle laughed at Wormtail's pathetic behaviour, dismissed his thanks. "Not that arm, Wormtail," he said. He seemed almost to be in a good mood.

"Master, please… please…" Wormtail begged. Riddle lifted up the sleeve of Wormtail's left arm, rolling it back to expose a faded, red Dark Mark branded into his arm. He pressed his finger against it, and it turned black, and Pettigrew screamed in pain.

"How many will be brave enough to return, I wonder…and how many will be foolish enough to stay away…" Riddle mused to himself. He noticed Harry finally paying attention to the proceedings.

"Ah…Harry Potter, finally awake and ready to join us? I hope you appreciate the extra lengths I went to, to bind you. Can't have you burning through the ropes and escaping, as you did three years ago. No, Lord Voldemort is clever; he learns from his mistakes."

"He talks about himself in the third person a lot," Harry added. Riddle must have been in a good mood, because he made no move to punish Harry for this "insolence".

"These are quite impressive bonds," he conceded, to be fair. It was impressive magic, if not in the calibre of the Goblet of Fire, the Room of Requirement, or even the ceiling in the Great Hall. For such a swiftly-cast spell, it was impressively thorough. Dumbledore had been right to name Riddle as one of Hogwarts's brightest students. More's the pity.

Now that they'd established a sort of dialogue, Riddle came closer, to speak with him face to face, droning on-and-on about his own past, his heritage.

The fact that his father hadn't wanted him.

Harry's focus was sporadic, limited by the flares of pain, and when they leveled out. It was quite an exquisite pain, if you were a masochist, sharp and bitter and jagged. It left no opportunity for peaceful reflection. It woke the beast in its cage in the corner, and he braced himself for the worst.

_The only way—_

_Not now_! he told the corrupted corner of his mind, as if that ever accomplished anything at all.

"I'm so pleased that you could make it for my rebirthing ceremony," Riddle said, walking towards Harry with fluid grace despite the newness of his body. "You can't see it, but that tombstone you're bound to is the grave of my muggle father, a worthless man, contemptible. I know that you cherish your father, but I killed mine when I was sixteen, and see how much more useful he has proven in death!"

He laughed here, one of those hair-raising laughs that he must have spent decades perfecting. Or, Harry could have told himself that, except for the memory of a sixteen-year-old Riddle laughing in just the same way. That might even have been a Riddle who hadn't yet murdered his family. And that was a pretty screwed up thing to do.

"I revenged myself upon that fool who gave me his name, _Tom Riddle_, the muggle who abandoned his pregnant wife just because she was a witch," he said, his expression turning into a snarl or a glare, as he stared at the name upon the tombstone behind Harry, a name which might have belonged to the owner of that glare. Did the tombstone say "Tom Riddle", or did it include a middle name? Surely the two of them did not share that middle name, if Riddle had been named for his maternal grandmother.

"How sentimental I sound, going on about family, thus! But look, Harry Potter…my _true_ family returns at last."

Harry reconsidered, thinking that he should probably open his sixth and seventh senses as wide as they would go, and try to break these bonds.

Then, he closed his eyes, as the most obvious solution in the world occurred to him. He had no idea how he'd explain it to Dumbledore, afterwards—as he knew he must—but that mattered little. The important thing was surviving the night. He studied his reserves of magic, and smiled. He thought he even had the energy to carry through with this.

Mother's love continued to circulate through his veins, but, owing to the proximity of Riddle, this only served to sink Harry deeper into a well of pain. He gritted his teeth, as if that would make it more bearable, and cast a quick glance around the graveyard, where Death Eaters were apparating with loud cracks, forming a circle around their lord.

It was time for another monologue, courtesy one _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. And, while he was distracted….

He'd fallen out of habit of using those spells, if they didn't even occur to him. Wizarding magic was always what he reached for, first, second, and third. But, while he didn't want to betray the existence of the _other_ magic to Riddle—particularly not with _Pettigrew_ there—he had his priorities. An ace up the sleeve was worthless if you never _used_ it.

He disappeared from everyone's sight—which was not the invisibility cloak at work; he couldn't reach to use that—projecting what was almost a copy of himself, but wearing only the Hogwarts robes he'd been wearing during the Third Task, with the Sword of Gryffindor girt at his side. Even a little movement, in this still and quiet graveyard, would attract attention. Riddle turned, demanding to know how Harry had escaped his bonds. Harry just smiled, in return. He'd paid a little attention to Riddle's interrupted monologue—which included the surnames of a great many of his Death Eaters, and an explanation of how he'd survived on that Hallowe'en night, thirteen years ago.

Riddle'd made his followers uncomfortable with veiled accusations. He'd promised great things to those who had come to him tonight, vowed to free the faithful trapped in Azkaban, and to punish those who had forsaken him.

Standard villain fare, if Harry could judge (and he probably could). Macnair, Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy…well, he could even recognise Lucius Malfoy's _voice_, obsequiously lying about how faithful and ready to serve he was. More likely, he served only out of fear, and would rather flee the country and forget all about the war, but lacked the courage…and besides that, all of his assets were here…it would be easier to stay. Harry was inclined to scoff, but his priority had to be setting himself free.

The Sword of Gryffindor suffered itself to be duplicated, albeit in a much weakened form, which was all that was needed. Harry sharpened the duplicate-sword's edge and fortified it against the steel chains it would be forced to combat. Duplicate-Harry cut through only one link of the chain, but that created a sudden slack that freed Harry, and the duplicate vanished, sword and all, the energy dispersing into the air, as the graveyard once again thwarted his attempts. It stripped away the illusion that Harry had vanished, but it was too late.

His leg remembered that it had been broken, and began to throb, his scar insisting that his skull was about to crack open. He shook his head, to try to clear away such thoughts, and stood. He turned in a small semicircle, analysing the odds, counting the Death Eaters around him. He had seen worse odds. He had bested worse. But he had not been alone then, as he was alone, now. Where was Thor?

It wasn't his fault. He would have come, defying all the rules, had he but known. Harry took a certain strange strength from this knowledge.

"Am I your guest of honour, Riddle? I am _flattered_," he said, with a smile. His eyes were watering, but he ignored them. Silver fire continued to course through his veins, still shaping itself into something useful. He drew his hands close together to begin shaping a shield, as the armour continued to form.

"But _how_!" demanded Riddle, like a petulant child, denied some trivial thing he desires.

Harry glanced at Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye, and gave Riddle a cold smile. He leant forward. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked.

Riddle dealt with Harry thwarting the plans in exactly the same way he dealt with insubordinate minions: with torture. In retrospect, Harry should have seen it coming. It was only obvious.

As were the consequences of the torture. After all, the armour of Mother's love was still solidifying 'round him, which meant that the buckler he'd started to make was still far from solid, and therefore, he had _no_ defence against the Curse. Add that to that constant underlying ache all throughout his body, his broken leg, and the way the pain kept increasing as Riddle came closer, anyway….

_His mother's love protected him. A powerful countercurse, I had forgotten. The spell rebounded upon me, stripped me of my body, and I fled. Fled, but was not defeated. You, of all people, know how far I walked down the road to immortality. I did not die, but I was very weak, far too weak to restore myself to my old body. I remember only forcing myself, second after painful second, to exist_.

_Why bother_? had been Harry's first response, listening with half an ear to those words. Such incredible pain.

Riddle was generous with sharing his pain, at least. The Cruciatus Curse layered itself through all the other, comparatively mild, aches and pains, into a single wave of agony. Harry knew from prior experience that he didn't stand a chance in such conditions.

_The only way not to break, is not to care!_

The words resounded, reverberated around his mind. He hadn't summoned them, but there they were, nonetheless. Pain was Thanos's way into his mind, after all.

_Mother_! he cried, but he knew better than to waste his energy trying to fight this. Instead, he turned his mind's eye inwards, in that split second, throwing up a barrier around the corrupted corner of his mind, even as it stretched shadowy tendrils out, boggart-like, to ensnare him.

He built a maze out of the same fortified metal Riddle had used to make his chains, strengthened further with a hundred runes, and gave it a porous weakness by arranging the wall into a maze—it couldn't simply blast through the barrier—it would have to make its way through the maze. He installed another, thick wall of a barrier beyond that, and a third, feebler barrier beyond that. The key was to buy himself time. Now that he'd used the mantra, the only thing he could do was to hold _Thanos's influence_ at bay for as long as he could, until Thor could set him right again.

He had been made whole again, as he hadn't allowed for himself since that night, three years ago. He hadn't been able to risk it. Some piece always had to remain, warding off that corrupted corner of his mind. But now that it was stirring, lashing out, _awake_, there was nothing he could do. Only Thor could drag him back out of this—Thor, or someone else in the know, who would recognise the warning signs. Stephen. Sirius. Remus. But they were far away. He needed to last long enough to get back to them, and try to avoid any more _pain_, which would weaken the barriers he'd set up.

He returned to awareness of his own body—swifter, doubtless, than even Riddle expected. He had been brought to his knees, which was unacceptable. He pushed himself to his feet, restarting his lost efforts on creating that buckler as he did.

"That hurt, didn't it, Potter?" asked Riddle, which was the stupidest question he'd heard today, despite spending almost all of it around Thor. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Human? Yes. But then, he _was_ human.

Sort of. (Not really?)

Riddle's eyes widened as he spoke, betraying how startled he was that "Potter" had already regained his footing. To save face, he pretended that he'd lifted the Cruciatus on his own.

"You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

_Most people would not_, Loki silently agreed, but he just smiled, in return. He did that a lot, because it was so incongruous. It threw a lot of people for a loop, but it just made Riddle angrier.

"I said, 'you don't want me to do that again', do you, Potter? _Imperio_!"

With that slight warning, he barely had time to even _think_ about raising up occlumency shields before it hit, and he staggered back, but Mother was actively watching out for him. The twine of Riddle's will caught fire when it came in contact with his mother's protective veil.

_Mother_, he thought, and began to build an occlumency wall, that she needn't work alone. Riddle's eyes narrowed, but by now, Loki had set up the sturdiest occlumency shields he could think of, both within, and without, his mind. His leg twitched, and he sank down to his knees, again, and then pushed himself back to his feet, bringing his hands back together to begin forming the buckler…for the third time.

_You have been told that this boy defeated me, and he set me back, I must admit… but no defence remains to him now. His mother's love, which once protected him, now strengthens __**me**__._

…_Pettigrew would have had me use any wizard who hated me, wouldn't you, Wormtail? But I knew that only one would do_.

…_but I can touch him, now_. A single flare of white-hot pain, cutting through his focus.

The armour continued to take shape, its progress staggered somewhat by his mother's distraction, her need to protect him on two fronts. He blended wizarding magic, and _other_ magic together in a seamless mixture of quicksilver that slowly solidified into fake metal and wood.

"Do you seek to command _me_, little wizard?" Loki whispered, and any difference in his voice might be attributed to how quietly he spoke, if his voice seemed deeper and rougher, if his accent held a foreign tang to it…but there were those who knew better.

Only those physically closest to Riddle could hear it…this was not a conversation meant for a broad audience. He drew the Sword of Gryffindor.

"You have said that before. Do you claim to be something other than a wizard, then?" asked Riddle, again. Loki glanced at Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye. Pettigrew still had Harry's wand, but he didn't need it, surely. But Riddle the wraith, or Riddle the memory, were not the same as resurrected Riddle. This was not a foe to underestimate.

"You asked that question before," he said, doing his best to sound bored. It wasn't even a relief that Riddle had lifted the Cruciatus Curse prematurely. It had taken its toll. He'd broken, caved, used the mantra. He was now operating on borrowed time. "Shall I give you the same answer?" It is hard to ask a question without raising your voice. His volume naturally rose with his pitch, carrying his question further than he intended or wanted.

The Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably around them, but Riddle had told them to _stay where they were_, and they dared not to disobey.

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Very well, then. I will ask the question you told me to ask then: Who is Harry Potter?"

Perhaps something that came of the fallout of his ritual informed him that all was not quite as it seemed with the Boy-Who-Lived, or perhaps Harry's abilities made him suspicious. Loki didn't know; he didn't understand the odd turns this man's mind sometimes took.

"Too late," he said, with a cold grin. "You should have asked that, then."

The buckler solidified, at the same time that something else…shifted? Pettigrew inhaled sharply.

"Slytherin colours, Mr. Potter? Dear me, what would your Head of House say?"

Did _anyone_ say "dear me" in this day and age? Except for, _maybe_, Captain America?

He frowned. "These are _not_ slytherin colours," he cut in, interrupting whatever Riddle had been about to say. "Those are green and _silver_. You would think that you, being the Heir of Slytherin, would know."

He turned his back to Riddle to approach Pettigrew.

"Hello, Wormtail," he said, in his pleasantest voice. "Do you recognise me, now?"

Pettigrew took a step back for every one he took forwards. He was, literally and figuratively, trapped between a rock and a hard place.

"You—you _can't_ be—" he cried, somehow managing to be even whiter and shake harder than Harry had ever seen from Sirius.

"You seem disappointed," he said, in his mildest voice. "Why would that be, I wonder."

At this, Wormtail fell prostrate upon the ground. "Please, my lord, have mercy. I didn't know," he said, and Loki's eyebrows rose.

He sensed Riddle seething behind him, though, so he was getting _something_ out of this. But…that word, again…_mercy_.

"You betray those who fight by your side, who call you friend, and you presume to ask _me_ for my mercy?" he asked, his voice at its very softest, which Wormtail must have understood meant impending suffering. "And let us not forget that among your victims are my mum and dad…for what manner of _mercy_ do you seek, Wormtail?"

"Potter, I asked you a question," snapped Riddle, in a very Snape way.

"I owe _you_ no answers," Loki snapped back at him, his voice suddenly full and carrying, as only a commander or an actor can manage. He turned back to Wormtail.

"Will you answer his question, little wizard? Will you betray _me_ to him? Where do your loyalties lie, I wonder?"

"Wormtail! Do you know what Potter is?" Riddle demanded, his voice sharp and swift as a whip.

Pettigrew looked back and forth between them, eyes flicking rapidly between, perhaps looking for weakness, but there was no easy choice to be had. Loki's eyes narrowed as Pettigrew delayed, and Riddle raised his wand, perhaps to cast another Cruciatus. Behind them, he was aware of the impatient Death Eaters shifting and muttering amongst themselves, but careful to be quiet, lest they catch the attention of Lord Voldemort.

"Well, Wormtail? Who is he, that you hail him as your lord?"

Loki smiled, and Pettigrew began to wring his hands, still holding the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand. He glanced at Riddle, and then his gaze met Loki's.

"Your wand, my lord," he said, stepping forward to hand it over. Loki took it without looking, wrapping two fingers occupied with the Sword around the wooden handle, and sliding it back into its holster. Pettigrew would not meet Loki's gaze.

"Is that your choice, Pettigrew? I can see that you do not make this choice out of loyalty, but rather _fear_. You fear _me_ more than you fear _him_. That is all. Do not pretend otherwise. By now, you should know better than to attempt to lie to me."

Pettigrew swallowed, hard.

"You betrayed my parents, and that is unforgivable," Loki continued, stepping towards Pettigrew again, and deflecting Riddle's spell with an almost casual ease. He wanted to get "Potter"'s attention before he killed him, but his patience was always short. Loki wasn't sure that he could block the Killing Curse. And speaking of….

"I tire of you, Peter Pettigrew. But, in the end, you did not forsake me utterly. I will show you mercy, after a fashion. But, whatever I have given you, I revoke."

"You—you _can't_," Pettigrew whispered, tears streaming down his face, and Loki wondered just what he'd given him. But he did not amend his words. All he said was,

"That includes your life, Wormtail. I spared you last year, and have lived to regret it. But I shall show you _mercy_. Do you wish to know what that mercy is? It is that you shall have a swift death, and not the prolonged one that Riddle or my brother would inflict upon you. Be grateful."

He knew just the right angle to impale a man's heart, which was a more intimate sort of demise than he would have preferred to bestow upon Pettigrew, but you couldn't have everything. He would have had to bend in order to sever the vulnerable femoral arteries, and the carotid artery was hardly more convenient. This was the most dramatic death he could award Pettigrew, and it was even better to know that he'd died before he could change his mind, and betray Loki after all.

"Well," Loki said, turning back to face Riddle with a smile and a sword coated red with blood. "Now what?"

It was telling that even Riddle was disturbed by _that_ smile.


	100. Mother in the Physical World

**Chapter One Hundred: Mother in the Physical World**

He was aware of a tangled net of spells launched in his direction, but, as none of them were the type to bend or change their course to pursue their target, he simply leant out of the way, raising a brow. He was well on his way to infuriating Riddle. It was an easy thing to do. Unfortunately, this time, he had backup in the form of highly impatient Death Eaters, which meant that his temper tantrums had more weight.

Oh, well. Against all his training, Loki sheathed the Sword of Gryffindor, drawing the wand Pettigrew had recently returned to him. Wandlore suggested that the connection between their wands might work to the benefit of either. But Riddle was unaware that it existed. That put the odds _slightly_ in Loki's favour. He'd take "slightly", if that were the best offer, which he rather suspected that it was.

"And now, we duel," said Riddle, as if he'd planned it all along, but in reality trying to wrest back control over the situation. "Has Dumbledore taught you proper dueling etiquette? First, we bow."

Loki was very much tempted to refuse to do this—beneath his dignity, Riddle was a slytherin liable to attack the moment he broke eye contact, and all—but he was trying to _not_ be arrogant and smugly superior anymore, and not bowing before a duel was something that Malfoy would have done. _Draco_ Malfoy, that was. Having never been in a duel against Malfoy Senior, he'd refrain from making any hasty assumptions.

He inclined his head, five second bow between peers (which he supposed Riddle was), and straightened up. He had the sense that Riddle was big enough on drama—just see what a production he'd made of tonight!—that he'd observe the niceties, too. His form was so serpentine that you'd be excused for not believing he _had_ a spine.

"Dumbledore didn't tell me," Loki said, raising the buckler between the two of them. "It was Lockhart taught us that. It must have been one of the few things of any consequence that he knew."

He cheerfully ignored the fact that the duel could scarce be considered even to have begun before Riddle had flung another Cruciatus his way, as if to make up for the brevity of the previous one's hit. But it hit the buckler, instead, with the impact of a punch, and Loki braced himself, ignoring the gasps from the onlookers. You'd think they'd have learnt by now. Surely, some of those spells Riddle had launched at him to get his attention whilst he'd been talking to Pettigrew were Torture Curses.

"I wonder who taught _you_?" he mused, as if they were having a friendly conversation instead of a duel to the death. He was too used to the latter for them to phase him much, anyway. "Was it Dumbledore?"

Riddle was incensed at his refusal to take the duel seriously. Loki could see the rage reaching a boiling point, and took two or three steps back.

It occurred to him that he'd assumed that the Death Eaters wouldn't interfere (it was dishonourable),and this realisation troubled him. It would never do to assume such restraint or honour from this lot. These were the ones who'd had the nerve to claim to be under the Imperius to avoid prison, and yet here they were. There was a sort of invisible Tug-of-War going on, between cowardice and hatred. Here, when both at last aligned again, they returned to their master's side. Pathetic.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" cried Riddle, which, of course, Loki had been expecting. But he wasn't sure how to react. The buckler had blocked the Cruciatus Curse—he tried that, first, but it burst the shield on impact. His eyes widened. He didn't have time to form a second one. Time for some quick thinking.

As Riddle raised the yew wand again, Loki aimed at Riddle, crying, "_Expelliarmus_!" against Riddle's "_Avada Kedavra_!" There was cause to choose that spell, of course. If it hit, it _ensured_ a period of vulnerability for Riddle, and it doubled as an attack, unlike his second choice, the stunner, which could be undone by any of the Death Eaters still ringed around them, and with greater speed than it would take to wrest Riddle's yew wand out of Loki's hands.

Of course, that was assuming that the spells functioned properly, which they decided not to, because that was how the universe worked around him. He was—how had Sirius put it?—a source of localised chaos. Instead of the Killing Curse killing him, or Riddle losing his only weapon (and Loki acquiring it), a beam of light connected the two wands—the two spells, each vying for supremacy. Whoever had the stronger will—not greater power, but a stronger _will_—would force his spell through, but lore disagreed on what happened after that.

Time to find out. He forced the current of energy back towards Riddle (there was no way that _he_ would be judged to have the weaker will). The spells met in a strand of gold thread—thicker than thread, _twine_—and where they met was a lump in the spell-yarn. He thought of queens, and of looms, and of household drudgery. He thought of murder, and sacrifice, and redemption. Happier times, lost beyond recall; sorrows to drown the world in tears; the lost, the forsaken, those whom fate had failed.

He forced the energy down the line, studying the golden strand, but not daring to touch it. He forced the yew wand to swallow the lump of raw energy, which was too much for it.

It began to regurgitate the spells it had recently cast—recordings of screams (the Imperius left no audible trace); a giant silvery hand, bestowed upon Peter Pettigrew, minutes prior to his demise; and then a long pause to indicate those restless months when the wand had seen little use. As the wand spat up the ghosts of spells, a web sprang up around them, made of thread-of-gold fibres so thin they were almost invisible, which guaranteed that they were stronger and sharper than steel. Neither he nor Riddle were ever fool enough to try to attack or force his way through them.

Then, a man, an old man, whom Loki (Harry) had once seen in a dream appeared. Fog lifted around those memories; he recalled that it was the dream of the summer—the one that had sparked Sirius's protective concern. The old man carried a cane, though he had no use for it, now. But, there was something about him—perhaps his defiance then in his last moments of life, as now, or perhaps something else, the way he stood his ground—that Loki…respected. It put him in mind of the warrior mentality of another culture, _show no weakness_, worth and virtue only in valour and strength, fortitude.

"That's the man who killed me. You fight him, boy," said the old man; his voice full of strength and resolve, he turned to look down his nose at Riddle, as if far above him. Loki remembered another time, another old man, and _wondered_. Such a tenuous connection, but a feeling of similarity, a point of divergence, as if the men were one and the same, although they couldn't be.

_(There are no men like me._

_There are always men like you.)_

_And this is one, I suppose,_ he mused. _This 'Tom Riddle'. But it is not __**me**__ whom this one defies._

It was like being on the winning team. It was like being in the right. It was like being a hero. It had the outward trappings of righteousness, and filled him with a strange sort of…_purpose_, and camaraderie—a sort of kinship with the old man. He ignored Riddle's exhortations (or orders, more accurately) that his followers _stay where they were!_ again. He found himself turning to the man, and saying, as if the man were more than a regurgitated image,

"What do they call you?"

After all, the old man had spoken to _him_, first.

"Name's Frank Bryce," the elder said. "That man, he says he's a lord—"

"He lies," Loki said, voice too level. He was stricken, just then, by the powerful realisation of how alike Riddle and he could be, in certain circumstances. _You cannot lie to the Dark Lord_, and Loki will know if you attempt to lie to him. Death is the only mercy that you can expect. Could the Death Eaters even tell a difference between the two?

"Are you a warrior, Frank Bryce?" he asked, as Riddle twitched, unable to move, bound within the confines of this spell, his wand rendered useless, he could speak, he could move his head, he could twist his torso, but his arm was as immobile as a bridge of stone.

Loki knew, because he was in the same situation—or near enough it. There was a flicker of life to his arm, the sense that, although it felt as if an insurmountable barrier surrounded it, that barrier could, if enough force were exerted, be shoved aside. The different colours surrounding the two of them suggested that Riddle did not have that luxury. The glow surrounding his arm must be the barrier keeping his arm from moving, and it was bright white. That white line blazed across from wand tip to wand tip, before encasing Riddle in a solid, muted grey.

Two shades of silver, the purer kind used, rumour held, in the forging of the Sword of Gryffindor—that was the colour that surrounded Loki—and a blander, almost iron grey, which surrounded Riddle. Active and inert. Light and dark.

_Am I a lord of light, then?_ he thought with some amusement. He, a bringer of light, of order, not ruler-conqueror, but liberator. _How far I have come_!

A realisation: perhaps he _had_ come far. Perhaps he _had_ changed, "_grown in his exile_", become better than he was.

"I fought in World War II against them Nazis," the man said, with no small amount of pride.

Ah.

_The last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everyone else, we ended up disagreeing._

"He is very similar. Perhaps you recognise the type. You are brave to have faced and fought him when you lacked a proper means of defending yourself. If ever I have the chance, I shall speak to my father concerning your fate. In the meantime, I may only hope that you receive the reward that you deserve, in the next life."

The old man asked no questions. Perhaps he was distracted by the appearance of another form, that of a woman Harry had never seen. She was fairly young, and forgettable-looking, with an absent expression to her face that abruptly cleared.

"Harry Potter?" she asked, but he had gone beyond the Rules of Invocation. They could not apply, when there was only he, unified against the corruption within and deadly peril without. He did not know this woman, but had no doubts as to how she recognised him: she was a witch.

"I'm Bertha Jorkins," she said. "More are coming. Wait for them…wait…be strong."

There was a gentle lilt to her tone, reassurance, almost strength. He recalled hearing about her, in that first dream, recalled Bagman's dismissal. ("She's always been a bit scatterbrained. She'll wander in in October, thinking it's still July!" he laughed at the World Cup, and even then, she had been dead, for these spells revived in reverse order, and Frank had perished before the Quidditch Cup. For Riddle and Wormtail to have discussed this woman's death while Frank still lived—)

More screams, feminine ones—Bertha's screams, he realised, with a brief widening of the eyes. She seemed unaffected, coming to stand at his left, as the old man stood behind him.

If this spell reawakened the recordings of all the spells the victim's wand had cast—like that spell the late Mr. Crouch had used at the World Cup—then…then….

A foolish Death Eater reached for the gossamer threads of the arena, and yowled in pain, withdrawing his hand as his fingers burnt with the intense heat. Loki scoffed. It was clear that the arena was made of light—or lightning. Hmm….

Bertha brushed his shoulder, and then nodded to Frank, and they set off around the perimeter of the arena, as if on patrol. As they came near Riddle, they hissed things even Loki couldn't hear at the man, making him blanch, as he waited, unable to move, for the cage of light to finish its tale.

And Loki realised that, as Riddle had no control over the arena, perhaps _he_ did. He was used to physical arenas, but this cage of light, although it held them immobile, was just as much a dueling ring as any physical amphitheatre.

He held the wand steady, even as its weight seemed to increase tenfold by the second. He knew what he was waiting for, now. He _knew_. And, as he waited for a decade to rewind before him, he _planned_. He thought of that night, two and a half years ago, tried to pinpoint how it had worked, how he'd made the stars align just right. He bent his mind to that task, when he should have planned further. Perhaps he should also have thought of Cedric Diggory, but the boy didn't occur to him.

He erected another barrier around the maze he'd created to keep Thanos out, unsurprised to find that the outermost had crumbled already; that was what it was there for, as a breakwater. The outermost defences would take the brunt of any assault first, because any such attack was directed towards _him_, and never Thanos. That energy, which could tear down his barriers, proceeded as a wave until it hit a "sandbar".

Whichever was stronger prevailed. If the barrier was demolished, then that energy—that pain—continued to the next, and the next, which, in this case, was the maze. He could not let it reach that far. As a wave against the shore, the pain would eventually erode his barriers. This one had taken quite a bit of damage, as had the second one. The outermost barrier always managed to be the weakest, anyway. Mental turbulence, no doubt.

A glow lit the graveyard, casting all in sharp relief, tombstones reaching out long shadows, as a faint woman in blue jeans and a loose, long-sleeved pale blue blouse dropped from the wand that Riddle held. The most vibrant thing about her her long, fiery red hair, faded, yet brilliant, as a candle in a pitch-black room.

He didn't know how great the distance between them was, but she crossed that space in seconds.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice full of regret…sorrow, tears in her eyes, a smile on her face, she spread her hands in a familiar, welcoming gesture, but then her hands stretched out further, reaching for him.

"Be strong, Harry. James is coming. He'll be here soon. Wait for James…."

She was so misty and murky, and _human_ even in death. There was something liminal about her, something too like what he now was. Not a distant queen, not a loving housewife, but only one dead woman among many, a name amongst the nameless masses, neither here nor there, and therefore perhaps not anywhere.

She was more than a curiosity to him, but a curiosity she was, nonetheless, a chance to see his mother, the human. But there was another way to that.

He missed his dad's arrival, too busy being indecisive, the hand clenching the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand white with the tightness of his grip, his entire arm shaking with the strain, and with something more taxing than mere exertion.

"Mother," he whispered, knowing that the word did not mean the same thing to her as it did to him. A gulf emerged between them, an abyss, and he'd lost her before he'd even met her.

He reached out his left hand for her, unthinking, took her hand, closed that divide, the abyss that had threatened him so often before. Frost crept down his arm, invisibly trailing silver-white under his sleeves (good thing that Riddle couldn't see), gathering on his hand, coating her hand and continuing down her arm. An answering fire traveled in red and orange wisps from her shoulder down, melting the frost as it went, reaching their connected hands and traveling up his arm, meeting the silver fire that already thrummed in his veins.

The vagueness of her form solidified, changing as it did, until she wore a pale blue and lavender dress, an ethereal glow about her, lighting the air around her, as if she were the noonday sun, and bore with her the sun's radiance. Her fiery red hair almost crackled and sparked. Loki knew that the only reason that Riddle did not take a step back was because he was frozen in place by their joint spell. He leant back as far as he could, instead.

"Mum," Loki whispered. He didn't know why, but he didn't want her to be _Frigga_, his mother. He wanted her to be Lily Evans. Perhaps it was because they were in a muggle graveyard. Perhaps it was because of Riddle's presence. Or perhaps, it was because of the man he knew would soon appear amongst them.

"Harry?" asked a voice. "Is that—_is_ that you?" asked an almost-familiar voice. James, in grey denim and a black t-shirt, pulled himself to his feet, straightening up, and staring, as if across a channel, at Lily and Harry-who-was-not-Harry.

He shrugged, and smiled, as if not at all disturbed. As if it didn't _hurt_, not to be recognised by his dad. "What is your difficulty, I wonder," he said, with a broad wave of his left hand. "Do I perhaps remind _you_ of someone?"

James stumbled on the uneven ground, again. Whether this was a tell, or a consequence of him having working feet, was hard to say. "…I'm having some difficulty telling: are you my _son_, or my childhood friend?"

Loki's smile widened. "Do you consider those two to be mutually exclusive?"

His dad climbed the hill to join them, Lily all aglow with godly fire, a halo all about her, and Loki, his sort-of son. His son. His _son_.

"I suppose it depends on whom you wish me to be," he said. "Rules of Invocation, and all."

Completely ignoring the fact that he couldn't afford to relax even a little, and the Rules of Invocation were temporarily locked up in a safe, although they still applied to Mum.

"A choice?" asked the shade of James. "Who is more important to me?"

Loki nodded.

"I want my son. Harry," he said, reaching out to him. James rested a hand on Loki's shoulder, and turned back to face Riddle.

"Dad," Loki whispered. It was surreal, unfair, to have a father, one he knew had _died_ for him. Unfair, that he had the chance to learn why, and yet, had no opportunity.

Riddle had resorted to the embarrassing strategy of attempting to yank his way free of the confines of the spell, which just made him look silly.

"We will be your guards, Frank, Bertha, and I. We are dead, _umbrae mortuorum_; Voldemort can no longer harm us," James said, in an even lower voice. "Lily, you—"

"I have some tricks up my sleeve," she said, with an almost austere smile. There was a certain distance to it, certainly. Perhaps it was a difference in their natures that she was unable to overcome, now that she knew of it. Perhaps it was because, in another time and place, she was already married. Did they _love_ one another? Did it matter?

He'd turned her into a different person, mostly by accident. He'd erased the shade of Lily Evans, overwritten it, dragged out the woman from his dreamscape, and superimposed her upon the otherwise false image.

He'd turned her from illusion to reality. That wanted to remind him of something, but the _what_ wouldn't come clear. He hated when that happened.

"Lily?" asked James.

There was a pause. Loki needed _Lily Evans_, particularly, he realised. Asgard was a warrior culture, but Sif was the only woman who showed much interest. But Lily, Lily Evans had fought in the war against Riddle, before. She would know how to use magic to _fight_.

"Mum—" he began.

"It'll be alright, honey," she said, with a warm smile. He'd reached through to her. He truly knew the Rules of Invocation. "I'll be your guard."

Another Death Eater had grown impatient, and decided to see whether the barrier might have cooled in the interim. Loki saw him sucking on his fingers in his peripheral vision.

"I'll be his bodyguard," she said, left hand sliding into a pocket in her dress that hadn't been there a minute ago. The dress faded into the blue jeans and blouse of before, and she settled an arm around her son's shoulders, in a move both familiar and strange.

"On the count of three, make a run for it. Even you can't hope to take on all of Voldemort's Death Eaters—and the man himself—and live." James sounded haggard, and worn, and he looked around the graveyard as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

"He is only a fragment of who he was," Lily murmured. "Less even than what I am. Most of what he is lies in the Otherworld. Do not think less of him."

James joined the patrol, with a backwards glance at them, and a nod. It was as if he hadn't heard. They wouldn't be able to hear him across the way, unless he yelled. Perhaps that was the signal.

Bertha Jorkins nodded to Loki, as she passed. Frank was too busy keeping watch to notice him.

"Head for the Triwizard Cup, and Diggory," Lily whispered. "It is a portkey, after all. It brought you here; it can take you back."

"On the count of three, break the spell," James said, as he passed by again. A glance at Riddle suggested that the man was boiling with rage, and would be firing ten Killing Curses a minute the second he was free. Loki began to shape the buckler that had protected him, before.

Perhaps to spite Riddle, the shades of souls slain waited until it had solidified before giving the signal.

"Now!" James called from across the way, and as the way to either side was barred, he twisted the wand, yanking it downwards, instead. The cage dissolved, but the spirits of the dead lingered.

"Run!" Lily cried, and shoved him towards the Cup, before turning to face Riddle for the fifth time.


	101. Cedric's Vow

**Chapter One Hundred One: Cedric's Vow**

He heeded her commands, although it went against all he had ever been taught of honour or chivalry to leave her behind. He knew that she couldn't be truly harmed, being dead. But there was also the realisation that her lifeforce was tied into his own, which he'd come to in the wake of the Quidditch Match of Doom. He rather suspected that _he'd_ suffer the effects of any damage she suffered. But he also guessed that she knew this, and would go out of her way to avoid being hit. But suppose that Riddle realised…?

He couldn't run, but that was of little consequence. All he needed was to get out of their line of sight, and then create a distraction, misdirection, and hide under true invisibility, one not granted by his Dad's cloak. Perhaps equal in strength? He was unwilling to reveal that secret, the invisibility cloak, to Riddle and the Death Eaters. They already knew that he had a strange, foreign magic to him; they did not need to know about this magical artefact. Invisibility cloaks were not common as garden gnomes, after all.

He broke through the Death Eater ranks, casting stunners before they could recover. Riddle was already screaming at them to _stop him! Kill him!_ in a voice very like that of teenage Riddle at the end of second year. He was not, however, speaking parseltongue, which raised the question of where the giant snake Loki remembered from his visions was. Riddle'd said something about feeding _Harry_ to the snake (Nagini?) earlier, which meant that she must be nearby. But there was little time to waste thinking of giant snakes, when he knew that a throng of Death Eaters were casting stunners (and Killing Curses) in his direction. The only cover to be had in this graveyard was tombstone markers.

He ducked behind the first one he came across that would block him from their view. He didn't regret not fully healing his leg before the battle commenced, but at the same time, it complicated things. But he knew that maintaining his mother's form in the physical world was draining his magical reserves swiftly, no matter how much practice he'd put into the _other_ sort of magic this year. And this, too, would take a large chunk of his energy, just to buy him some time.

He closed his eyes, and _focused_. It had been a very long time indeed since he'd had cause to use this particular trick—but it was necessary, here.

He wrapt himself in a different sort of invisibility from the cloak, and sent a duplicate scrambling from cover, limping from tombstone to tombstone, aiming for safety which it would never find. It moved at a good pace, he reflected, as he set off on his own course, footsteps carefully chosen, treading lightly, lest he catch the attention of the Death Eaters, casting their Killing Curses at the duplicate, now.

It was tempting to reach for the ambient magic of the graveyard, but he could feel how it had warped and twisted, buckled under the weight of Riddle's spell of resurrection. It was too dangerous to risk, particularly with only his barriers keeping out the corrupted corner of his mind.

He had to go at a slower pace, but it was worth it—"haste makes waste", as they said.

He caught a glimpse of the giant snake from his dream, slithering around the perimeter of the graveyard, testing the air. She'd know the difference between him and an illusion, he realised.

Haste became paramount, and he quickened his pace, barely glancing back at the Death Eaters. A sharp pain lanced through his midsection, and he felt himself falling, as if one of those curses had hit, despite the buckler, despite his protections. The invisibility dropped—one of the downsides of not using the cloak. The buckler dissolved. But he was only ten feet or so from Cedric Diggory, and the Triwizard Tournament Cup. He could make it.

But, he couldn't move. There was a separation, a sense of detachment from his body, for a moment. He looked down at his own body, sprawled on the ground. He looked over at Cedric, as the fingers twitched, as the breeze ruffled his clothes and hair.

The snake Nagini hissed in triumph, and Riddle turned to where Loki's body lay, in the grass, and began his approach, unhindered by his erstwhile adversary, Lily Evans, whose body had dissipated into whatever that smoky stuff was of which souls were made. It took form, visible, he knew by Riddle's lack of reaction, only to Loki himself. She glanced at him, tears in her eyes, and stretched out a hand.

"My son," she whispered, hand outstretched, waiting for him to take it. He knew that she could outwait him.

"Mother," he said, bowing his head in acknowledgement. A strange energy began to fill him, even as he felt himself begin to deteriorate.

"And what of Thor?" she asked, as if he had asked her a question, or given her an argument. "What of the girl, Ginny, and your friend Hermione? What of your plans, the wars you are meant to fight?"

"Another could fight them," someone else might have said. "Haven't I been through enough?"

But it flared briefly, in that moment: a need to atone. He remembered what Thor had said, that he'd come back in time to save these two: Loki, and _Mother_, and both were lost, in some fashion, if Loki died.

_"Either must die at the hands of the other_," Mother warned. "You will not perish if you do not return to your body."

"I have no choice, you mean," he said. He felt it now, a strong silver cord that bound him to his body, drawing him back in.

"Would you choose otherwise?" Mother asked. "Only you have the power to reweave fate."

He took her hand, and there was a shift in focus, abrupt, disorienting, and he was lying on his side in the grass. He didn't know how he'd twisted, even as he'd died, at the last moment. Something had changed, shifted, again, as it had each of the last three years. He'd been remade, become someone different again from who he'd been before. That was growing old. He'd died again. That was more infuriating.

He turned to Diggory, unsurprised to see that Mother had disappeared, and crossed the last ten or so feet, unprotected. He found that crawling forwards on his hands and knees made him a more difficult target to hit, and he had no protective gravestones. He did not want to be arrogant, smugly superior. He came up next to Cedric Diggory, and took hold of his arm, and then, with a sigh, pointed the holly wand at the Triwizard Cup, hoping that it could be summoned _now_.

"_Accio_!" he cried, as Riddle, of course, screamed,

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Perhaps he was wondering how Harry had moved after being hit by that curse, or perhaps it had only hit Mother, after all.

He caught hold of the Cup with his last three fingers, and the portkey whisked the two of them away, Cedric and Loki.

It was taking him somewhere in particular—he could feel its intent, its purpose. But he had no regard for the designs he was about to thwart. He tied the bungee cord that pulled you through space into a knot, wrapping it in a circle around the first likely place he came across.

Later, he would be obliged to concede that he was fortunate not to come to a halt stuck in a solid wall of rock, or even the plastered walls of a modern townhouse, but for now, he was just relieved to come to a stop, for the moment, setting down the Cup, knowing that that knot in the cord would keep it from heading on to Hogwarts without them. He needed time for the armour to dissipate. He'd prefer no one knew about it. And he should also renew that stunner he'd cast on Cedric, if it hadn't already—

"What the _hell_, Harry!" Cedric demanded, leaping to his feet, now that the immediate danger was past. At least he'd had the common sense to realise that, hey, the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who were overlooking him; he should probably stay still and play dead.

"Ah. You're awake," Loki said, with a smile. "Smart of you not to move."

"You hit me with the Killing Curse!" Cedric cried, throwing up his hands. Apparently, even a stalwart Hufflepuff could only take so much.

Loki frowned, and raised an eyebrow. "I did _not_ cast the Killing Curse on you," he said. "If I wished you dead, you would be dead, now. I used a stunner."

"It was _green_!"

"A little trick I picked up," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Cedric said, running a hand through his hair, which was very straight and tidy, even after all Cedric had been through, tonight. There was some dirt in there, and a couple of leaves, but it was nothing like the tangled mess that was Harry's hair on a good day. It was tempting to hate Cedric for any number of reasons, but being accused of murdering him ought not to be on his list.

"Professor Moody said in our lessons that the Killing Curse would only take, if its caster could muster up enough hatred and bitterness—"

"If I had wished you dead, that would not have posed an obstacle for me," Loki repeated. "I am not a hero, Cedric Diggory."

"Okay, I get it. Thank you for saving my life. I guess you're right. You killed Pettigrew, after all. That _was_ Pettigrew, wasn't it?"

Loki froze, just briefly, and turned to face Cedric. It was tempting to wander around this house, see what it could tell of Riddle's origins. He knew that this was the old Riddle Mansion, the house in which Riddle doubtless thought he ought to have been raised, (and that, perhaps, rightly).

"How much did you _see_, Cedric Diggory?" he demanded, giving Cedric his undivided attention for the first time since their arrival here. That stunner had been reinforced with the Star Preserver spell; it should have lasted a long time. Just how _long_ had he been unconscious?

"Enough," said Cedric, in a deadly serious tone. Loki sighed, and folded his arms. He'd just wanted to stay here long enough for the armour to fade away, but it hadn't gone, yet. It was important to look weak and defenceless before the spy, the Death Eater whom Riddle had explicitly mentioned being at Hogwarts.

"Maybe You-Know-Who wasted his chance to ask, but I've never been in a position where it seemed necessary to ask who you were, so I don't think I've wasted _my_ shot at it. Who is Harry Potter, then?"

This was not how he'd wanted the night to go. Then again, he also hadn't wanted the night to go with Riddle resurrecting himself using dark magic. Hallowe'en and June, he reckoned, were the worst times of the year for him.

"And I suppose you also wish to know about this armour I wear," he said, brooding.

"_That's_ armour?" asked Cedric. "Well, yeah, then, I guess I also want an explanation for your sudden wardrobe change. You keep going on and on about debts. I guess you owe me, Harry. You owe me an explanation, at least."

He wanted to protest—Hermione did not know yet, and she had been his friend for years. His plans, such as they were on track, were occurring out of order. But what else could he expect? Perhaps he was a god of _chaos_. It at least made more sense that putting him in with the likes of gods of order.

"This is a very big secret, Cedric Diggory," he began, and Cedric frowned.

"What, we're going by full names, now, _Harry Potter_? That's kind of a You-Know-Who thing to do, isn't it? I mean…I thought we were _friends_."

This was news to him, but before Ron and Hermione, he'd had none (that he recalled; the Marauders complicated _everything_). If Cedric said that they were friends, he probably knew better.

"What else should I call you, then?" asked Loki, at a loss. "That _is_ your name."

But Cedric had a point. And, hey, he'd been calling the boy "Cedric" up to this point. He continued before Cedric could give a response.

"Well then, _Cedric_, this is rather a big secret," he said, and there was a sense of accomplishment as his diction stretched tendrils out, reaching for the twentieth century. Or possibly even the twenty-first.

"I can keep a secret," Cedric said, settling down into the old armchair before the (currently extinguished) fire. Had they floo powder, they would have had an alternate way into Hogwarts, but, alas, they were stuck springing Moody's trap.

"I do not know you well enough to judge whether or not you could keep this secret. Nor, I believe, do _you_ know yourself well enough to truly judge such a fact."

"What, do you want me to swear an Unbreakable Vow?" asked Cedric, as if he couldn't believe that a secret that big existed. Loki leant against the fireplace, not bothering to glance around the room. The dust that covered every inch of floor in the rest of the house was completely absent here.

He probably didn't expect _Harry_ to seriously consider his request. "That requires the presence of a witness, and we have none," he said, instead.

"So, what, you won't tell me?" Cedric demanded. Perhaps he was right to react so strongly to this secret-keeping, when it pertained to a situation in which he had nearly died.

"I will ask you to swear an oath to speak not a word of this to anyone, and I mean _anyone_, including Dumbledore, including your parents, except those who already know, although, of course, I understand that you will not always recognise when you might say something, on accident, that would otherwise break your promise. How will you know if someone knows the secret unless you are allowed to hint? That is my backdoor for you," he said, thinking of that day, at Grimmauld Place, what he'd thought about binding the Marauders 'round about with promises, with dire consequences should they break it, but a way to discover who knew and who didn't know. How he'd wanted to make the terms fairer. Had he succeeded, or had he replicated the oath that had bound them? If only he _remembered_….

He shook his head, and continued. "Understand that this oath that I would ask of you would be as binding as an Unbreakable Vow, for all that it is unknown. I do not easily forgive those who would casually break an oath sworn to me, but as the fate that awaits such violation is worse than death (there are many such fates), I am lenient. Would you be willing to swear such an oath, Cedric? Think carefully. Is this knowledge worth that for you?"

Cedric swallowed, hard. He thought he understood the weight of the oath. But there was a reason that he had been chosen Hogwarts's Champion. They'd gone through this tournament _together_, had won _together_, and then, this. He needed to _know_, to understand tonight, or it would haunt him for the rest of his life. If he needed to keep this secret from everyone, then that is what he would do.

Throat tight, he nodded, sensing that he'd just made a momentous decision, but unsure what he'd just gotten into.

"We have but little time in which to discuss this," Loki said, not looking at Cedric. "But perhaps more could be explained, later. Are you certain that you wish to know, Cedric?"

There was almost sympathy in his voice. Almost pity.

"Yeah. Yes, I swear." Somehow, Cedric knew that it was important to say it aloud, to speak those words. He looked at the floor.

"We need to arrive at Hogwarts before word can reach You-Know-Who's spy, saying that I have escaped. They think you dead. That will be some protection for you, until they learn otherwise."

"I'll fight against him; I'll join that group of Dumbledore's protectors. The top-secret one. I'm in this to the end," Cedric said, eyes blazing bright. You had to hand it to him—he didn't want for courage or passion. But Loki wasn't sure he quite understood what it was, to fight such a war.

"I will keep things brief. I am only waiting for the armour to fade away before we take this portkey, probably back to Hogwarts. You-Know-Who's lackey will be waiting for us. You must be on your guard."

"You said that you'd explain what happened. You said you'd tell me who you were," Cedric said. He couldn't help sounding a bit petulant. He leant forwards in the armchair, staring across the room.

"It is a complicated tale, and long. You will need to make do with the abbreviated version, and ask more of my brother, later."

Cedric blinked. Harry Potter was an only child. James and Lily Potter had been too young to have any other children. Who—?

"I will ask you a few questions, to begin," Loki said, as if he'd just come to a decision. "And although they might strike you as irrelevant, and unconnected to the subject at hand, trust me, nothing could be further from the truth."

_Trust me_.

Cedric nodded, as if he'd taken a vow of complete silence.

"Tell me, Cedric, are you Christian?"

This sentence, this question, came out of nowhere. Cedric blinked, as if it had been an _attack_ that came out of nowhere, hitting him in the head so hard that he saw stars.

"Er…yeah," he said, hesitant. This did seem unconnected to the subject at hand. "Most of Wizarding Britain is."

Loki scowled. "I know. Tell me, Cedric, do you believe in reincarnation?"

Uh…. "No?" he asked. Loki leant forwards, hands clasped before him.

"But they mention reincarnation, even in the Bible," he said. "I might direct you to a passage or two. The Dursleys had their biblical phase, before they realised that they couldn't even keep the Ten Commandments. Hmm."

He waved a dismissive hand.

"Well, I suppose that you're one of those old-school Christians—it would be just my luck," he added, with a bitter grin. "I suppose you think the gods of other religions, if they exist at all, are all demons and…_monsters_."

He spat out the last word, and Cedric's brows drew together into a bewildered furrow.

"Well, yeah," he said, nonplussed. "But, what relevance does this have?"

Loki sighed. _What_, indeed? "Well, they are wrong. I will not seek to make you forsake your faith, but perhaps I might…_broaden your horizons_, a bit." He winced at his own choice of words. "I will tell you, for instance, that they are not—at least for the most part—not demons or monsters, but they are very real. Can you imagine _Ron_ with scaly red skin and a tail?"

He paused to try to imagine the scene, but it was impossible.

"No. He is a true protector, a true gryffindor, the embodiment, as I told him, of heroic valour. He is a hero."

Cedric swallowed. He might have asked what relevance Ron Weasley had to the matter, but he could take such a blatant hint. He might not have been in Ravenclaw, but the Cup had tried to find the most balanced candidates, the most well-rounded, that there were. He was not a fool, either.

"You can't be saying—" he began, nonetheless, but he cut himself off.

"Of course, I am not like Ron. I am not a hero, as I said before. In truth, I don't even think I'm a very good person. I have done things that I regret. I have done terrible things. Perhaps that makes me a monster. But Ron is my brother, and he knows me best. He does not seem to think me irredeemably evil. Perhaps a second chance is all that anyone needs."

The armour dissipated in the manner of smoke. He stared at it, its wisps and curls, in fascination. From green and black they turned into bright silvery wisps of smoky haze.

"Are—are you saying that you're a _god_?" demanded Cedric, head in his hands. Oops. He hadn't meant to overload him.

"Reincarnation, Cedric," Loki reminded him, with an almost gentle softness to his voice. "This particular tale is quite complicated, and involves reincarnation into the past. Ron became quite a celebrated hero in the future, before he went back in time. All the more reason for secrecy, however. _I_ am not a god, but my previous incarnation _is_ and he is still out there. I suppose I should be glad that you are not liable to ever be the sort who might be tempted to appeal to the gods you know for help, for you might thereby attract the attention of my past self, and he is now still so bitter and full of hatred…. I doubt that it would end well for you, either."

He glanced at Cedric to see him gulp and lean back in the armchair, practically squirming.

"If you wish to know more, then you must seek out my brother. Tell him that I have told you. But keep this a secret from Hermione. She does _not_ know, although Ron ought to tell her."

"Then…you're saying…you and Ron are the reincarnations of _gods_?" Cedric asked, approaching a state of mild hysteria.

Loki frowned. "No. Only _I_. _Ron_ is what you would call a theophany—a god appearing amongst men. He just plain _is_ a god."

Cedric slumped. The truth was, he could no more imagine Ronald Weasley as a red devil tempting the weak-hearted into sin than he could imagine him as a god. It all seemed impossible, a hallucination, perhaps caused by lack of sleep. But here he stood, after that light had hit him, and he'd thought he would surely die.

But, how could he go back to normal after this? Didn't this _have_ to change everything?

"Then…then what gods are you saying you _are_?" he asked, in something of desperation.

Loki only smiled, and reached out a hand. "I am no longer a god. I am only human. But… my mother was as I am. The blood of an awakened goddess flows in my veins, and I have the soul of a god, but the body of a human. Perhaps, I should be impressed that I have not worn myself out. The magic I used then is not beyond my reach."

"That's how you changed the colour of the spell you cast on me!" Cedric realised. "And later…how you disappeared…and that duplicate."

"You are swift on the uptake, which is just as well. You heard that there was a spy at Hogwarts, one of You-Know-Who's Death Eaters. From the moment of our arrival, we must be ready to fight—unless you wish to play dead a while longer. No one would think less of you."

Cedric would think less of himself. He was sufficiently distracted by this change in topic, keeping in mind that he must remember to speak with Ron. This was insane.

"I mean to fight," he said, again.

Loki smiled. "Then, be ready to fight Moody. I suspect that he's the double agent."

"But, he's Dumbledore's friend," he protested, internally cringing. He must be just responding automatically now. He was overwhelmed by what he'd just heard—and he owed Harry, or whoever he was, his life, but….

"We shall see," Loki said. "If you wish to come with me, rather than making your own way back, then take the Cup with me, again. On the count of three, now. One, two, three."

Cedric had to scramble to reach the Cup before the countdown ended, and they once more each grabbed hold of a handle.

Loki untied the bungee cord, and, freed, it snapped, dragging them back at incomprehensible speeds, returning them to the front of the maze that covered the quidditch pitch.


	102. Three Hours in between

**Chapter One Hundred Two: Three Hours in between**

Loki shook his head. The adrenaline had begun to settle, or had mostly settled, and he'd become aware of just how _tired_ he was. He'd already expended quite a bit of energy, tonight. But it was true what they said of sleep: it brought down all barriers. He had at least three that he could not afford to lose yet. The influence of the corrupted corner of his mind was still wending its way amongst the dead ends he'd provided for it, seeking for an escape. His brother needed to be warned. He could rest only later, when he'd told Dumbledore what had happened, when he was alone, or alone amongst those who knew, who could help, who could withstand his worst attacks.

Thor, certainly. Sirius and Remus, almost likely. No one else. He must seek for shelter, of all things, at Grimmauld Place.

Beside him, Cedric began to drag himself to his feet, amidst cheers. But the Triwizard Cup perhaps had not been designed to do what it had—or, rather, even to carry them to the front of the maze, for Dumbledore appeared in his peripheral, approaching them at a rapid pace, alongside Moody.

Thor reached them first, reaching out for Loki even as he stayed kneeling in the dirt, as if he lacked the energy with which to stand.

"Harry!" Thor cried, as if sensing something amiss, without needing to be told. He knelt by Loki's side, and a memory of times long past tried to surface, but he shoved them aside, favouring more recent concerns.

Loki focused on him, needing to get the news out, before the impending battle, before he could become distracted, before he could forget. It was vital.

He ignored Moody, ignored Dumbledore, ignored Cedric, for the moment, reaching out to grab the folds of Thor's sleeve.

"Forgive me, Brother," he said, and he knew that Thor could hear the slight difference in his voice, the hint of a foreign accent, if his voice was a bit raspier, deeper, stronger, but darker, too. "I never meant for it to come to this. Riddle tortured me in the graveyard, and I used the mantra. I will hold it off for as long as I can."

Thor tensed, but all he did was pull Loki to his feet.

"Little brother," he tried, and Loki turned away.

"The Rules of Invocation will not work on me, when all of my energy is needed to hold the other at bay." He turned to the newly-arrived Dumbledore, before Thor could formulate a response. "He's back," he said, reaching for Dumbledore. "You-Know-Who has returned."

"It's true, sir, I saw it myself," Cedric said, his voice surprisingly level considering recent events. It must be whirring at a fast pace, trying to process what he'd just overheard, to make any sense of it, even as he cast a wary glance at Ron.

"Harry, what have I told you?" asked Dumbledore. "Fear of a name only—"

Mr. and Mrs. Diggory were climbing down from the stands—and not only they. Sirius looked shaken, as if he'd _sensed_ the shift in the cosmos. Remus was not far behind him.

"You'd best see if you can talk some sense into Fudge," said Moody, nodding at the Minister, who was winding his way over to them. "I'll take Potter to the Hospital Wing…come along, Potter."

"I will go with him," Thor said, in his best Crown Prince voice. No wonder Neville, Dean, and Seamus obeyed without thinking, when he used that voice.

Moody frowned at this unexpected wrench in his plans, but he gave a curt nod, and away the three of them hobbled (well, Ron didn't hobble, but he was the only one with an uninjured leg). Cedric glanced around, looked at his approaching parents, and stayed back. Loki did not blame him.

Moody brought them, at a surprising pace, to his office, full of an auror's tools of the trade, and knickknacks. Loki's eyes snapped to the Foe-Glass set against the wall. Figures strained to form within it, as if uncertain as to their roles. They were three.

"Sit down, Potter," Moody said, in his usual gruff growl. "And drink this…should clear your mind, help you focus."

Loki took the vial offered to him, but he was not about to drink it. Who knew what it did? It might be poison intended to kill him if he escaped Riddle's grasp. Moody was not entirely rational; the usual defence that he would _not_ harm Harry, just because other people knew where he was, did not apply.

"Drink up, Potter!" Moody snapped. Loki feigned drinking the potion, and reached for the other kind of magic, to cast a vague illusion, one to make it seem that the potion were being drunk, the bottle emptied. He put the "empty " bottle in the folds of his robes, and Moody frowned. Well, he could hardly examine it later to see what it did if it were empty, or no longer in his possession, now could he?

Thor glanced his way, and then looked right back to Moody. Moody nodded his approval. Loki glanced again at the Foe-Glass, where the figures were deciding to solidify, as if this were now the obvious scenario. The one in the centre was definitely Dumbledore. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall stood to his right, and Professor Snape to his left.

He thought of the three figures of his own Foe-Glass. The first two he had met, tonight, had clearly seen, positively identified. Tom Riddle, now revived. Peter Pettigrew, now slain. One remained, but he did not look like Alastor Moody. Then….

_This _must be the straw-blond man with the bright blue eyes. Perhaps they would at last learn his identity.

For this could not possibly be the real Mad-Eye Moody. Loki ensured that his face betrayed no suspicion, as he related the tale of what had happened, how the Cup had brought him and Cedric to the graveyard, Riddle's resurrection ritual, the monologue, the appearance of the Death Eaters. That was when "Moody" turned strange.

"And did he forgive them?" he demanded.

Loki blinked, genuinely perplexed by this response. "What?"

"I'm asking if he forgave them. Those cowards who didn't even face Azkaban for him. Tell me that they suffered. Tell me that he tortured them. Tell me that he told them how I, alone, remained faithful to him, how I have given him more than any of the others. I who entered your name in the Goblet of Fire, who guided you through the tournament as best I could, who eliminated the opposition to your winning the Third Task, who stunned Delacour, and put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that you would be first to grab the portkey to the graveyard, and he could complete his resurrection. And I will kill him for you which he was unable to do, and he will honour me as the son he never had!"

Oh. Okay, this again. It had been a while since life had pulled one of these on him. Probably at least an hour, and this was an end-of-year crisis. The allusions were sure to come pouring in.

"Do you honestly believe that he'd be pleased if you beat him at something?" he asked, cocking his head, leaning back in his chair as if bored, even as Thor tensed near the doorway.

Loki glanced at the Foe-Glass, saw how the figures within it were solidifying. They were too wispy to rely upon. He needed to act _now_.

"Moody" ignored his question, except for a twitching of his brows. He raised the wand to perform the curse, and Thor was there, quick as lightning (of course), to grab hold of that arm and twist it backwards until something snapped. "Moody" gasped and dropped the wand, which Thor, by design or on accident, kicked over to Loki, who picked it up, glancing again at the Foe-Glass, as Thor hit the man hard over the head.

"_Stupefy_!" Loki said, somehow managing not to roll his eyes. Thor blinked, and took a step back.

"Ah. Yes," he said. He didn't have a hammer, either, so the origins of his confusion were difficult to discern. It wasn't as if he had a wealth of weaponry to choose from.

There was a crackling sound from the air nearby, and an orange ring of fire appeared as an oval in the room with them. Someone stepped _through_ the ring, as if at a circus, and Loki stared.

"Don't give me that look, Loki," Stephen said, waving a hand, palm down, in his direction. "You already know about sling rings. I told you about them."

But he'd never seen one in use before. He was almost inclined to pout.

"You're late," he accused, instead. Thor folded his arms, at the side of the room.

"Well, I'll keep this short, then," Stephen said, and Loki realised that he might have taken those words at face value. Time travelers made _everything_ more complicated. "I came here to speak to Thor, anyway. Thor, don't let your brother use any more magic."

Loki's eyes widened. "Now, just wait—" he began, but Stephen cut him off. Thor seemed confused, looking back and forth between them as if there were some prearranged agreement to which he had not been privy.

"I mean it. He's used a lot of very draining magic tonight. If he doesn't stop, he'll die."

Thor rounded on Loki, demanding, "Is this true, Brother?"

Loki frowned, just briefly, and crossed his arms. "He's exaggerating," he insisted. "I'm fine."

_Show no weakness_. The night was not over yet. Who knew what threats remained? Clearly, he'd survived in the original timeline (or…rather, whatever number timeline before the one they were currently on). He refused to be hemmed in; he needed the flexibility to defend himself. Moody may be out cold (for now) but he'd believe that he was safe when _Dumbledore_ gave the all-clear. If then. And let's not forget the barriers he'd built to wall off that corrupted corner of his mind!

"Yeah? So you didn't use magic to bring your mother into the physical world? Or fight off Voldemort using some of your older tricks?"

Loki glared at him. "I am going to kill you, Stephen," he announced, his words a pronouncement, a death sentence, even if he wasn't sure that he meant that quite literally. "I thought you were my friend."

He was faintly aware of Cedric having said the same thing, not very long ago, which did nothing to improve his mood.

"I _am_ your friend, damn it!" said Stephen. "That's why I'm trying to _save your life_. _You_ are ungrateful."

He was completely unaccustomed to Stephen being the one to lash out. He knew that Stephen had the capacity for anger, being a thinking, feeling being, but he was usually calm and collected.

He wasn't right now, however. Right now, he seemed the sort who could fight Loki on equal footing…at the very least as he now was. And…_was_ he merely being ungrateful of the fact that someone cared about him? How would he have reacted if Thor were in his place?

He glanced over in Thor's direction, as if watching the scene play out before his eyes.

"If you won't agree to not use magic for the rest of the night, maybe Thor should use those handcuffs on you. After all, we can be certain that _they_ work."

Loki's eyes widened, again, as he considered the ramifications. If he thought promising not to use magic was a corral, it was nothing next to the idea of being bound into magiclessness—in the most literal way possible. Then, he wouldn't be able to help, if it was needed. He'd be unable to defend himself, except with the Sword of Gryffindor. But if he gave his word….

And that was a low blow, bringing up the handcuffs, as Stephen had. He had to know the residue of bitter memories that they dredged up. Not to speak of how incredibly conspicuous they would be—if his goal was to go about unnoticed, they would draw unnecessary attention, thwarting his best efforts.

His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders slumped, head bowed. He spread his hands, in surrender.

"Very well. I will promise not to use any magic for the rest of the night, if you will refrain from using those handcuffs. But this is the _only_ time I will do this. Do not think that you have found a ready means of subduing me."

"Yes, yes, we get it; it's only because tonight is exceptionally difficult. Blah, blah, blah."

"Can we trust you to keep your word?" asked Thor, and Loki frowned.

"I have the Sword of Gryffindor," he proclaimed, drawing said Sword. "I have no need for greater magic, tonight, I suppose."

Never mind that his leg still ached and throbbed. It was somewhere between "broken" and "healed", but he would need to work on it, later. For now, no more frivolous magic.

"I promise that I will use no more magic tonight. Does _that_ satisfy you, Stephen?" There was, of course, a bitter bite of reproach in his voice, but he had mostly calmed himself down, except for that bitter undercurrent that always seemed to lurk just beneath his awareness. It was not cause for concern.

"It'll have to do," Stephen said, glancing at the door. Loki could feel it, too—people approaching, heading for this room.

"I told Sirius and Remus where you were. I'm getting the hang of this 'seventh sense' thing, although I'm not as good at it as Sirius, yet, I don't think. You haven't told me much of what happened tonight, but I kept watch, as you asked."

"You missed the graveyard," he said, folding his arms, and glancing at Ron. "A boy named Cedric nearly died."

They were too close for further discussion, now. He knew the confrontation had to wait. "Go on, Stephen. We'll fill you in on what happened tonight, later. Even if it be twenty years hence."

Stephen waved his hands in a circular motion, and a ring of fire slowly grew there. It expanded into a doorway, and Stephen stepped back through, and out of sight.

Less than a minute later, the professors arrived, breaking down the door, Dumbledore leading them with fury radiating from every pore of his body. Tonight was endless.

* * *

"Polyjuice Potion?" Loki repeated. "Then…he was stealing ingredients from Professor Snape's stores to brew it in secret. I see. He pretended to be performing routine checks to gain access to areas otherwise forbidden to him."

He stared at the slop on the floor, and then looked back at the blond-haired not-quite-stranger lying on the ground before them. Remus sat up against the wall, on the floor in a corner, eyes wide, but Sirius kicked at the motionless figure, as if to pat him down for weapons without having to touch something so filthy. Thor had moved into the corner with Remus, and Snape was off retrieving his strongest vial of veritaserum. Hadn't he threatened to spike Harry's pumpkin juice a few weeks ago? Yet not a word of apology, when he must have realised what had truly happened, by now.

"Good heavens! Barty! Barty _Crouch_?" asked a gobsmacked McGonagall, clutching at her chest as she entered, trailed by a blubbering Winky, who peeked around McGonagall's leg, and gasped.

"I thought he might have forgotten to take the potion as the dosage is recommended: once an hour, every hour, for as long as you desire the effects to last. When Severus arrives, we will begin."

Loki had not had to plead the case that "Ron" be allowed to stay. Somehow or other, Dumbledore seemed to understand the necessity of his presence, although Hermione and Ginny were probably having fits by now, both over Ron. And perhaps Harry, although he would never gratify himself by assuming such.

They were only waiting for Snape, now.

* * *

"I'm not leaving him," Sirius insisted, in what might almost be considered battle stance. Arms crossed, head back, straight-backed, unyielding, he stared Dumbledore down.

"No, I suppose not," Dumbledore said, with a heavy sigh.

"No more will I," Thor said, as if as a continuation of Sirius's statement. There was a certain solidarity there. Dumbledore nodded.

"I expected no less. Truly, Harry is in good hands, but he has truly great friends. Doubtless, Ms. Granger would also wish to join us."

"I'll stay back, and get her up to date," Remus offered, and Dumbledore gave him permission and a kindly smile. He led the way to his office, gave the password, and cordially allowed the others to precede him up the stairs.

Loki turned to the cage containing the phoenix Fawkes, who looked vague and blurry-eyed, to the extent that a phoenix could ever seem either.

"Hello, again, Guy," Loki said, with an empty smile. Hollow. Fawkes gave a sad little dirge of a song in response, which was fitting.

Dumbledore (literally) drew up a number of chairs and beanbags for them to sit upon. Sirius chose a beanbag, arms still folded, eyes narrowed at the Headmaster, as if to read his mind and divine his intentions. As was usual, Thor stood off to the side, in a strikingly similar pose, leaning against the wall, careful not to cover any of the portraits. Dumbledore took a seat behind the desk, and Loki, still wary, carefully lowered himself into the seat on the other side.

"Lemon drop?" Dumbledore suggested. Sirius ignored the bowl, but Loki took one for tradition's sake, and Thor, looking wary and out-of-place, followed suit, but neither ate them.

"Thank you," Loki murmured, nonetheless, and then reached into the pocket of his cloak to withdraw the potion Moody had tried to have him drink. "Does this perhaps belong to your friend, the real Alastor Moody? Do you know what it does?"

Dumbledore barely glanced at it. "I don't know the answer to either question, my dear boy, but I'll have Professor Snape take a look at it. For now, we have more urgent matters to discuss."

It was suddenly very difficult to breathe.

"Oh?" Loki managed, at last, hand clenched tight over the muggle candy.

"You must have known that I would ask you to relive the events of tonight," Dumbledore said, in his gentlest voice. "I know that you are tired, and that you have done a lot tonight. Tonight, you have shown greater strength and courage than wizards many times your age. You have shouldered a great burden, and found yourself equal to it. The Wizarding World and I are in your debt. But now, I must ask you to demonstrate that courage for me, one last time."

Tonight was everlasting, neverending, interminable. It was one thing right after the last. He'd _died_, and yet, somehow, life still did not see fit to give him a break. In other words, it was just like any other June at Hogwarts (bar the last).

Just the same, except….

He thought of Winky, doubtless crying, still, in the Hogwarts kitchens. He thought of Bartemius Crouch, whose fate was yet to be determined, who had escaped justice because his father had, for once, gone against his own nature, and shown something that approached compassion, concern, _love_.

The thought of the fake-Moody led Loki to remember Pettigrew, whom Crouch'd confessed to breaking out of Azkaban only last year. He thought of Peter Pettigrew, questioned whether they would even bury him, those Death Eaters, or whether he was perhaps as worthless to them as he was to Loki.

"…'Courage'," he scoffed. "Was it _courage_ that carried me through, tonight, or necessity?"

But he spread his hands wide, and leant back. He caught a glimpse of Sirius's narrowed eyes. If anyone were smart enough to figure out what had happened, _who_ was speaking with Dumbledore, without it being outright expressed, it was Sirius.

Something flickered behind Sirius's eyes. He glanced at Thor, who nodded. You would think Stephen would have mentioned it—but then, he, for whatever reason, did not seem to differentiate between _Harry_ and _Loki_. What that portended for the future could not be known. Every year, he was born again from his own ashes, like a phoenix. Who knew what he'd be, twenty years hence?

A twinge of conscience, at his recent behaviour. This was not the opportune time to think about it.

"I suppose that you care little about what occurred during the Third Task itself. In the end, however, Cedric and I agreed to tie for the Cup—I had never wished to enter to begin with, but Cedric was insistent. But the Cup was a portkey…it took us to a graveyard…."

This was how he began the story, already thinking several steps ahead, remembering the possible solutions he'd turned over earlier, during the battle itself, even, how much to say, what he could rightly explain away. He justified stunning Cedric by the entirely true supposition that Pettigrew would else have killed him, quite deliberately not glancing at Sirius, but knowing that his eyes had narrowed even further, fists clenched tight, standing rigid as a statue at the mention of his erstwhile friend.

He did not, of course, mention that Riddle supposed Cedric Diggory dead, or he would have had Pettigrew kill him, stunned or not. He was too great a liability, else. Let Dumbledore draw what conclusions he would; the truth was too far-fetched to be cause for concern.

He related what he had witnessed of the ritual of Riddle's rebirth, barely pausing at the glint of triumph in Dumbledore's eyes as the ritual completed, but filing it away for later reflection.

He glanced at Sirius, to see whether or not he had taken the same meaning, but Sirius stood, impassive, quite as still as before, motionless, and Loki continued, giving a cursory mention to Riddle's initial monologue presaging the arrival of the Death Eaters.

He enumerated them all, all those whose names he'd heard. It was not that important, next to Riddle's second monologue, which he skimmed over most of, but paused when he remembered that explanation, his mother's love, turned back in on itself. "_Some of you believe this boy was my downfall…_" he had said. "_His mother's love protected him. A powerful countercurse; I should have foreseen it___…_. But, no matter, I can touch him now_."

"Very well," Dumbledore said, looking haggard and worn, and very, very old. "He has managed to get past that particular obstacle. Continue."

This was the trickiest part. How had he escaped from his bonds?

But Dumbledore did not know about that first confrontation, did not even know that Harry had been bound, let alone that Mother's love had burnt those bonds away. The Sword of Gryffindor was a ready excuse, as well as the actual tool that had broken his bonds. Which, come to think of it, was impressive all on its own. Those had been reinforced steel chains, after all. The Sword of Gryffindor was truly a unique weapon.

And now, he came to the part that confused even him, which would, as a consequence, require more accuracy and detail. He told of killing Pettigrew—it had to be said—and of the start of their duel, his and Riddle's. Then, he came to the part that he had known would be hardest to talk about.

The memory of it brought that part of him that he would ordinarily consider _Harry_ Harry to the fore. As if he'd been caught doing something fun at the Dursleys, his gaze lowered, and he stilled, slumped over.

As if sensing that brief, slight shift, Sirius came over to stand by him in the blink of an eye, face quite as drawn and weary as everyone else's, tight with concern. He laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, which prompted something that had to be considered a strong reaction, in comparison to Loki's usually rigid self-control. He looked up to meet Sirius's gaze, a forewarning, and Sirius's breath stilled. He took a step back…but the hand remained on Loki's shoulder, as if transfusing strength.

"He cast the spell—the Killing Curse—at the very same time that I cast the Disarming Charm. Wandlore disagrees, you know, on what to expect after that. I know that Ollivander said that our wands shared a core, but it is difficult to find any references on the subject. There are only two such wands in the world, Ollivander said. Ours."

"They both contain a feather of the same phoenix, yes, one who is particular about those to whom he gives his feathers," Dumbledore said, gaze somehow remote and shrewd, yet mild with an intuitive sense of Loki's difficulty. He knew that the digression had to be made, perhaps remembering the protracted question and answer session at the end of first year.

He glanced over at the cage standing in the corner, and Loki followed it, momentarily at a loss for words. "What—do you mean _Guy_?" he asked. Fawkes lifted his beak from under his wing, preening, and giving a sleepy, but decidedly _smug_, trill, before returning to sleep.

This was something Loki could not have predicted. _What the odds_? asked a small voice in one of the corners of his mind. He assumed that it was his, but it was faint. It might have been Mother.

Dumbledore looked almost serene, and there was a pleasant moment of tranquility, before they returned to the graveyard, and the hardest part of the night for Loki to speak of. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. With his eyes closed, the scene could play back before him again—forcing the tangled knot of spell back into Riddle's yew wand, the cage of light, and then the screams, followed by the appearance of Frank Bryce.

Thor had not been there in Germany, he didn't think. At least, not early enough to know about the old man. He would perforce miss some of the details that stood out for Loki. But he could always explain things more accurately, later.

"I understand Sirius's insistence that we tell you about my dream over the summer, now," he said, trying to dismiss the entire affair as unimportant.

But there was a question that needed to be asked, during this lull in their conversation.

"Professor," he said, in his levelest voice. "You seem to recognise what it is happened in the graveyard. What _happened_? It has been bothering me since…well, even when it was happening."

"_Priori Incantatem_," said Dumbledore, tone still serene and relaxed, but somehow more guarded, despite that, now. "It is an incredibly rare phenomenon, and little is known of it. Much of what I will say is conjecture, based on personal theories, and, yes, some observation.

"It is true that a variety of different outcomes can result from two 'brother' wands being forced to duel one another, depending on a variety of different factors, if I were to guess, including the skill of each combatant, and the components of each wand. _Priori Incantatem_ invokes a battle of wills—who has the greater will and focus to force the spell cast from his opponent's wand back to its place of origin.

"The overflow of energy would seem to result in a sort of ripple effect—like throwing a rock into a pond, the displaced water has to go _somewhere_. The energy used to fuel the original spell is dispersed by recreating _echoes_ of the previous spells the wand has performed, in reverse order, until that energy is used up, or it runs out of spells. Breaking the connection would have disrupted the flow of energy, which would have stopped the process of the recollection of the spells.

"Because you did not break that connection, it continued to feed off the energy of the initial spell, as well as your magic. And that would mean…was Mr. Bryce the only one to seem to return from the dead?"

"No," Loki said, looking down, fists clenched. He thought of Mother, again, wondering what to say. Thor seemed to notice his tone of voice, expression tight with concern.

But there was nothing to do but to continue.

When he described Bertha Jorkins, Dumbledore nodded, and clasped his hands before him. "Yes, that is Bertha. I remember her when she was at school here. She could be a bit flighty and a gossip, but I knew that Ludo Bagman did her disservice, waiting as long as he did to start searching for her. Particularly now that we know that she is the individual from whom Voldemort learnt of the Triwizard Tournament.

"It is difficult to say what we might have been able to change. Every choice we make affects the future in a hundred different ways. His inaction strikes me as an innocent oversight."

Loki dragged the wand's continued backwards trek forward, with that same, almost masochistic determination that had driven him last year, when he'd confronted Ron about the truth after an already long day.

And at last he reached it, the critical point. He would not speak of drawing her into the physical world—there was too much of the _other_ magic about it, and he thought that he might be able to figure out that part, himself, as Dumbledore had just explained that web of light, the connected spells, the regurgitated remnants of bygone spells.

He was aware that his voice was ragged, hoarse, strained from suppressed emotion that he kicked aside, again. Thor came over to stand by him, leaving his post.

Loki struggled to rein in his own emotions. Had he ever been good at that? He didn't recall. He thought that he might, historically, have condensed them into a cold, callous mask. He could not use _that_ tactic in the here and now without rousing Dumbledore's suspicion. He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at Ron, and then at Sirius, still standing over him, transfusing strength, eyes soft with concern for him—for either him, for _both_.

He sat up straighter, and Thor nodded. _Show no weakness_. The silent message passed between them. He was ready to disregard Stephen's statements of the absurd counterproductivity of such a mindset. It was what he knew; it had helped him to endure the Dursleys; it had saved his life.

It might also have damned him, but that was beside the point.

He came to it, speaking slower, now, softer, refusing to meet anyone's gaze, as Sirius's grip tightened to an almost painful degree.

He told of his mother's arrival, but not of reaching for her, as he had when he had faced the Mirror of Desire. And then…James…. Sirius's fingers were white and bloodless with the tightness of his grip. Loki affected not to notice. He skimmed over most of what they said, telling instead of his dad's spur-of-the-moment plan. Then, the breaking of the cage, dodging from tombstone to tombstone to reach the portkey, and grabbing hold of Cedric, and taking hold of the Cup. But…before he could….

With a glance at Thor, whom he knew would be all the angrier that he was hearing about this only now, he told of being hit by the Killing Curse (in retrospect, it must have been he who had been hit, or Riddle would not have been that triumphant. Or, that was what he told himself, for the sake of closure). He described how, as he had lain dying, Mother had appeared, what she had said—that he had no choice but to live, and how he'd returned to life.

"Nor is this the first time I have died," he said, recalling the end of second year. "Tell me, Professor, when the prophecy says that '_either must die at the hands of the other_', does that mean that we are, for all intents and purposes, _immortal_ until one of us kills the other?"

Even Dumbledore seemed to be aware of Thor's mounting wrath at the idea that Loki had not, first and foremost, when he had first appeared at the entrance to the maze, told him that he had died _yet again_. But, there were more pressing matters on his mind, then. Still, he sensed an impending lecture, true to the vein of the continuing ironic drama of his life. Dumbledore hesitated, perhaps with the excuse of having to pause to consider the idea, before speaking.

"No. I don't believe that it does. Prophecies are as much a matter of choice, as I believe I told you last year, as they are of destiny. Voldemort chose you over Neville Longbottom, and ensured that you had cause for revenge upon him, his quests for his own resurrection preventing you from having mastery over your own life and destiny. That is what is meant by the phrase '_neither can live while the other survives'."_

"And what of the phrase before it: '_either must die at the hands of the other'_?" Which was the relevant point, the point he'd initially raised.

"It means only that the war is decided only by the death of one of you or the other."

He was hiding something. Loki's eyes narrowed. That last bit of explanation had even less relevance than the previous. But _what_ could Dumbledore still be hiding from him?

His thoughts were wrenched from such musings by Fawkes.

Fawkes had awoken again, and spread wings like fingers of flame out to their full breadth, for just a moment, before he landed on Loki's knee, with a reproachful glare, and tore through Cedric's field dressing with his beak, before shedding some of those thick, pearly tears on his leg, healing it, good as new. Not just for wounds, then. Good to know.

"You know the tale from that point," Loki lied. In truth, Dumbledore didn't even know the tale to the point where he'd left off, but he was not going to admit to redirecting the portkey, or his and Cedric's brief chat in Riddle Mansion. Besides, he needed to go to Grimmauld Place, or somewhere else secluded, and be brought back to his senses. There was no time to waste, thus.

"I see," said Dumbledore, voice grim and heavy, an ominous ponderance to it as he surveyed the room.

"I will need you to gather the old crowd," he said, turning to Sirius, who just turned his head to face Dumbledore, as if Dumbledore were unworthy of greater effort. Still, he was listening. "Lie low at Arabella's—"

"No," Sirius said, voice firm. "I think I will do more good here. You can send Remus. He'd love it, maybe get a good meal or two out of it, and you can't deny he needs it. I think _I'm_ needed _here_."

He turned back to Loki. "You alright…kiddo?"

There was no good way to respond to that.


	103. Three Hours in-between (Hour Two)

**Chapter One Hundred Three: Three Hours in-between (Hour Two)  
**

Dumbledore left them to go speak with Remus…and Fudge…and Snape…and McGonagall. Tonight was keeping him busier than he had been for a very long time—perhaps since the last war.

He left Loki, Thor, and Sirius to themselves, to regroup at the Hospital Wing. The unfortunate thing being: he couldn't _afford_ to go to the Hospital Wing just yet. Not with his barriers even now crumbling (because he didn't have the energy to support or to sustain them). He needed to get away from people, and that meant giving Sirius a friendly reminder as to the part of his narrative that might have been forgotten about. The brainwashed, dangerous part. The part where he tried to take over the world.

He pulled them into one of the many empty classrooms lining the hallway. This one had not seen _official_ use in quite some time: the broken lock of the door ensured that it remained abandoned, until such time as someone saw fit to have it fixed. Which, in true Hogwarts fashion, translated to "never".

"Why are we stopping here?" asked Sirius, in evident bewilderment. "The Hospital Wing is—"

"Trust me: I am well-acquainted with the location of the Hospital Wing," Loki snapped, straightening his back, and Sirius re-evaluated the situation. Okay, this wasn't just Harry-as-Loki, as he'd seen back in Grimmauld Place. This was somehow…a step further? Still in between, but much more on the "Loki" side of things? Well, he'd had to deal with him often enough when he'd been a full-fledged god instead of…whatever he was now. Sirius could handle this.

He thought.

"Look, Loki, you're one of my best friends, and I trust your judgement, and all, but, you know, you still need to rest, and get checked over by Madam Pomfrey. And I know your brother is worried as—"

"That is not the matter at hand," Loki said, holding up a hand for silence, but not looking. If it were possible to forget how much you hated politics and courtly airs, Sirius had done, in Azkaban.

"Well then, _Your Grace_, what are we doing?" He was smart enough not to say "my lord", hinting at Voldemort's sometimes similar behaviour, when Loki was already worked up about that, amongst many other things.

"I am running out of time," he said, showing it by not beating around the bush, as he likely would otherwise have done. "Do you recall that I made brief mention of an entity who…brainwashed me, and sent me to take over your world?"

Sirius glanced at Thor, wondering what this had to do with anything, but, yes, that sounded vaguely familiar, if completely irrelevant. He recalled that this was the straw that broke the camel's back for Remus. That was when Remus would have broken the promise, but for…extenuating circumstances. That entire conversation was hard to forget.

He was distracted by Loki almost falling into a seat at one of the desks. He looked pale and…exhausted, but he turned to face Sirius, with great composure, nonetheless.

_Show no weakness_, Sirius thought, with some vexation.

"One matter that it seemed…better to delay mentioning, was the lingering effect that that has had on my mind. These events will not happen for twenty years, yet. I know not what manner of connection binds us still, only that he used an artefact known as the Mind Stone to invade my mind in the beginning. He has left holes in my mind…places where thoughts fall through. But that is not all."

Sirius bit his lip to keep from asking, _in the beginning_? And how did _anyone_ invade the mind of a god—especially one as elusive and slippery as his old friend? But he at least understood the relevance, now.

"Regardless, Thor could easily confirm that that connection lingers, even now. Perhaps it is fitting that I share a lingering bond with two…supervillains, as you would call them. Perhaps I deserve it. That is neither here nor there. What _is_ relevant is that, that first time, I brought an army to conquer your world, and it took a _team_ of superheroes to defeat me. Thor was one of them."

Sirius managed to fight off a laugh, one of those horrible, hysterical laughs that had convinced the Ministry that he was a remorseless murderer. Of course, he had trouble seeing his old friend in such a light, either, but he saw how grim Ron looked, standing off to the side, and decided that the entire thing was probably true.

"'Superheroes'? 'Supervillains'? Like DC Comics, or something? Was Wonder Woman there? She's my favourite."

Loki frowned, unfamiliar with what he was talking about, but could _sense_ Sirius grasping for levity in this situation. He ignored the interruption, knowing that Sirius needed the reprieve. Perhaps he did, too.

"It requires the use of _magic_ to maintain these barriers I have erected to keep him out of my mind. Everyone knows that all your barriers fall when you are asleep, leaving you defenceless. I do not have sufficient magical energy to sustain them, for the moment. I would prefer not to…go crazy and try to take over the world, here. There is less opportunity for collateral damage, at Grimmauld Place."

Sirius nodded. "I wouldn't mind if you tore the whole place down, although I think even you would have some trouble with that."

"I have an idea!" Thor said, suddenly. He seemed rather pleased with himself on account of this. Loki turned to him, and made a visible effort not to roll his eyes.

"What idea is _this_, oh brilliant one?" he asked, with surprising patience, considering how close to the edge he clearly was.

"Do you recall the night that I nearly died?" Thor asked, with an almost cheerful eagerness.

Loki sighed. "Could I forget? That was a memorable day, on many counts."

"But I did not die. You did something…lent me your lifeforce, Mother said. Do you still have that ability?"

Sirius stood up straighter, understanding it first.

"Ginny would not be alive now, had I not," said Loki. Exhaustion showed through in his voice. Sirius didn't think he'd _ever_ heard Loki tired, worn out, at anything less than a high, sharp clarity of mind.

"Would it be possible for you to _borrow_ energy, instead of giving it?" asked Thor. Loki blinked, and considered the idea. He tended to forget that Thor was not actually stupid, and he tended to forget that he tended to underestimate him. Sometimes (rarely, it was true, but _sometimes_), he had very good ideas.

"Might you not borrow enough energy from me to sustain your magic until your disappearance would no longer be as suspicious?"

When Dumbledore would not notice that he had not come to the Hospital Wing, and begin to wonder whither he might have gone?

"Does it use magic?" asked Sirius, voice sharp.

Loki paused, considering. "That is never how it seemed to me," he said. "Magic to channel my life force into its intended recipient, but Ginny had no magic to spare. The transference is never an equation. Very well, then, Brother. I am willing to try your plan."

"Out of desperation," Sirius added, on his behalf.

"Only from desperation would I be willing to risk connecting my brother's soul with such a threat. The danger is minimal, however. Don't look so alarmed, Thor."

Thor shifted on his feet, but walked over to stand next to his brother, who, for at least the third time that night, opened his sixth and seventh senses.

He reached for an almost familiar connection, a bridge, and closed his eyes to minimise distractions. He knew how it felt to channel lifeforce into another. But it was only with his seventh sense wide open that he realised just how much of his own energy he'd drained, tonight. No wonder he was exhausted: he'd almost drained all of his reserves, and his last few spells _had_ been drawing upon his lifeforce. But he didn't dare to take too much energy.

It reminded him rather of the length of mind-twine he'd taken from Moo—from Crouch. Neither was a physical substance, but this had more give and stretch to it, more like water or goo. Which perhaps was fitting, given its originator.

Almost immediately, he felt slightly more awake (perhaps as if he'd just been jolted with actual electricity), and he broke off the connection, finding that his mind seemed clearer, now, thoughts easier to connect. He was less as he had been after the Quidditch Match of Doom, or his first encounter with dementors. Fatigue was held at bay.

"Thank you, Brother," he managed to say. There was still too much of pride about him (arrogance) to make the words ever easy to say. "That was a good idea. I should not be surprised that you have those, any longer. I have too often underestimated you. And perhaps underappreciated you. I would be ungrateful to ask for a better older brother, even had I a conception of what that would mean."

"Don't get all sappy on us, Loki," said Sirius, with a kind of sarcastic mockery that he'd come to associate with Stephen.

"I am never sappy," said Loki. "But rarely ever grateful, either. Shall we continue to the Hospital Wing, then?"

"I don't suppose we have much choice," said Sirius, glaring at the floor, which, to Loki's knowledge, had done nothing to offend. This was going to be a very long night, indeed.

* * *

"'Safer this year', they said!" Madam Pomfrey cried. "Safer than _what_, I'd like to know!"

She was doing her usual routine examination, trying to find any and all injuries sustained during the Third Task, and…afterwards. Fawkes had healed his leg, and that was the only injury of consequence. But he knew better than to argue with Madam Pomfrey, particularly not with Mrs. Weasley looking over Madam Pomfrey's shoulder, as if she didn't trust the old Hogwarts nurse to do her job right. Loki had no idea how to deal with any of their attention.

He almost knew how to handle the Twins, for no other reason than that they were pranksters. He didn't know _them_ all that well, but there was a sort of connection between them, nonetheless. They were sort-of adopted family, too. That helped.

He scanned the room around Madam Pomfrey's bustling: Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Fred-and-George Weasley, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Cedric, being treated for Blast-Ended Skrewt burns (or rather, waiting for his dosage of pain remedy to wear off), Sirius….

Conspicuously absent: Percy Weasley, who was one of the Tournament Judges. He was with Minister Fudge, who was to award the Cup in a great ceremony, which would now be canceled, doubtless, in light of recent events. Ludo Bagman and Madame Maxime were with him; Karkaroff, an ex-Death Eater, of course, had fled rather than face Riddle's wrath. Ah! There were the Diggorys! He'd thought that they were among the conspicuously absent, for a moment, there.

Madam Pomfrey was still bustling about, still fretting, keeping up a constant murmur about dangerous Tournaments and fragile students. He scowled. His _mind_ was fragile, but he was, otherwise, perfectly fine.

He made the mistake of saying the last part aloud. "I will be the judge of that," said Madam Pomfrey, firmly, before she resumed her fussing. There was no stopping her, he supposed.

Ron stood by as a sentinel, and Sirius kept a sharp eye on Madam Pomfrey, as if worried that she'd try to harm him. As if she even _could_. Hermione, by contrast, was staring intently about the room. She lingered by the open window, and, with a start, he realised that she was surreptitiously examining the Map. Huh. There was dedication, and then there was an absurd amount of dedication. Hermione was verging on the latter.

He withdrew his gaze, as if Skeeter were watching his area of focus _and_ could read his mind. Maybe she could. There were wizards who could do that. Dumbledore and Riddle came to mind.

Pomfrey finished her examination, and said, "Take these potions, and go right to bed. This one's for the pain, and this one's a Dreamless Sleep Potion; they do exactly as their name suggests."

He thanked her, took the tray with its potions back to his bed, and promptly set the tray aside, and waited.

"Aren't you going to take those potions, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley began, almost immediately.

"No," Loki said, voice flat. But she had been kind to him (although rather unfair to Hermione), so he came up with an excuse. "I need to know what's going on. What became of Crouch? What became of Moody?"

"Over in the bed with the curtains drawn," said Forge, jerking his head in that direction.

Ah. That would explain why he hadn't noticed. He rather envied Moody, who could hide behind the curtains with no complaints or raised eyebrows.

"And Crouch?" he asked. He knew the rumour mill was swifter here in Hogwarts than almost anywhere else. He didn't doubt that they somehow knew whom he was speaking of.

"He's being guarded by McGonagall. Fudge'll want to speak with him; that's what Dumbledore's busy with, now. And Remus went off somewhere to do something so top secret it hasn't reached the ears of Hogwarts's best gossips," said Gred, with a regretful shake of his head.

Although they were incorrigible pranksters who planned on opening their own joke shop, he trusted their word. Mostly because he could tell when people were lying. Most people. But including them.

He didn't know Bill or Charlie well enough for them to initiate any sort of conversation. Bill had either been recruited by Hermione, or was just trying to figure out what she was doing. She had better not have told him about the Map.

Charlie stood even further to the side, as if wondering what he was doing here at all. He seemed to be trying to bring himself to go over and speak with the Diggorys.

Loki shook his head, and leant back against the pillow. Ginny stared at him, with wide eyes slowly narrowing.

"Hello, Ginny," he said, with something that might be mistaken for a smile. Her eyes narrowed further, her face settling into a truly alarming stormy glare.

"Is that all you have to say?" she demanded. He recoiled, not expecting any such outburst from her. He looked from Hermione, still engrossed in watching the window and Map, to Ron, standing guard at the side of the room, who seemed perplexed at his predicament. No help in either corner. Bother. Sirius had the gall to look _amused_.

"What more do you require of me?" he demanded, trying not to sound _too_ confused. Ginny was Ginny, and thus inscrutable. Her eyes narrowed still further, and he had the sense that he'd made some sort of mistake, although, once again, he couldn't discern _what_, for the life of him.

Molly had wandered off to heckle Madam Pomfrey, and Arthur had gone to pay his respects, or to congratulate Cedric, or some such. Ginny seemed to feel this was sufficient distraction, because she leant forwards, and said,

"Who are you, and what have you done with Harry Potter?" She sounded on the verge of tears, and her tone was not at all similar to how people would sometimes say similar things in jest. She meant it.

"Ginny, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, and Sirius made a concerted effort not to laugh. Ginny thought he was laughing at her, and whirled around to glare at Sirius, who looked quite taken aback, taking an actual, literal step back, and folding in on himself slightly. Loki didn't blame him in the slightest. Ginny might have only been fourteen, but she was clearly going to grow up to be more than a bit alarming. Scratch that. She was already more than a bit alarming.

"Please," she begged, tears beginning to form in her eyes. "I know you're not—not _my_ Harry," she said, barely blushing through her concern. Fear? "You're being ever so polite, and so very distant, and you barely said a word to anyone else since you've arrived. You're not Harry."

Loki stared at her. He hadn't thought that _she_, of all people, would notice. Particularly not with Hermione otherwise occupied, unable to call attention to any differences in his behaviour. The only other two who might notice in this room were Sirius and Ron, and neither of them would have revealed him. His gaze flicked over the two of them, again. Sirius had developed an odd, mature solemnity to his air, all responsible caution and vigilance. Ron was trying his hardest to see without being seen, and failing spectacularly, as only he could. It would help if he fidgeted less. But he also had a sort of aura to him that called for the attention of others— regal bearing, an air of command. How Loki had missed it before third year, he didn't know. Probably hidden under his self-delusion.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he repeated, a second too late. And then, to make up for it, he added. "If you were right to be suspicious, don't you think _Ron_ or _Sirius_, who know me best, would have noticed? Hermione I'll grant you; she seems otherwise occupied. I'm only tired, Ginny."

And he was. He was so tired that it hurt. But he could go a long time without sleep; this he knew from experience.

Her gaze tried to soften, in defiance of her current sentiment. You could see the battle waged across her face, but her resolve won out.

"Is that right?" she asked, and he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, which was, of course, tangled, but not to the bushy point of Hermione's impossible hair. He withdrew his hand, and looked back at her.

"It's exactly right, Ginny," he said. But he was too tired to lie, too tired to be credible, too tired to fight. Perhaps that made him weak. He was, furthermore, rather…_gratified_, by Ginny, of all people, noticing the difference.

He realised that he had not asked for Luna to visit. He did not particularly want to see her. She was fun, and fascinating, and her ideas had more merit than her classmates gave her credit for, but tonight was a night of cold, harsh, indisputable realities, not of dreams.

The window slammed with a loud bang, and everyone started, save for Thor, Sirius, and Loki, all for rather obvious reasons. All for the _same_ reason. It was not sufficient distraction to dislodge Ginny, who reached out for him.

"Sorry, everyone," said Hermione, hiding something in the pockets of her robes, and coming over to sit at Loki's bedside.

"How are you doing, Harry?" she asked.

"Do you expect me to say that I am doing well?" he asked, with narrowed eyes. Thor at last came over, in case there be need for intervention. To protect Hermione, who did not know.

Something clenched in the vicinity of his stomach, and Hermione, flush with victory, did not notice, but Ginny did. Just as she'd noticed that he, usually the first to start at loud noises, had barely moved at all since he'd lain down.

"He hasn't drunk any of his potions," Ginny said, with narrowed eyes, "and he's acting funny."

"He's had a rough night," Hermione said, in her most soothing voice. "Give him space—"

"No!" cried Ginny, throwing off the hand Hermione tried to grab her arm with. Hermione blinked, and took a step back, stunned.

Ginny reached out a hand to him, and he stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. His mind filled with white noise. He shook his head and pressed a hand to his temples. He was faintly aware that everything hurt, and remembered that he'd been put under the Cruciatus. He didn't even think he'd remembered to mention that or the Imperius Curse in the summary he'd given Dumbledore. With his main weapon rendered useless, the Sword of Gryffindor, and the presences of Sirius and Thor, were the only reassurances he had.

"Harry, please," Ginny begged, and he noticed her hand, still outstretched, and thought of Mother.

He understood what an outstretched hand meant. It was always a gesture of assistance, a forging of bonds, but then, too…it signified a choice. A choice between proud independence and humble dependence. A choice between inner strength, the resolution and conviction that you could make it alone, and a willingness to take risks, to form bonds. He thought, in a brief moment, of all that he'd decided about forging bonds, of his own arrogance and ingratitude, but it was still almost a reflex, by now, to take her hand, staring at his own as if they'd acted of their own volition.

"I'm fine, Ginny," he said, and somehow, he mustered up a smile for her, even as a part of him wondered why he bothered.

He realised, belatedly, what memories might have been brought to mind by his abnormal behaviour, memories of days spent in a haze, coming to in unfamiliar surroundings, unsure of how she had come to be there.

"It's alright," he said, _Harry_ said, leaning halfway out of bed to place an arm around her and draw her closer, as she began to cry.

He'd made her cry again. His record with her wasn't very good at all, was it?

"You're a noble prat," she said, through her tears, as Hermione looked on with something between smugness and surprise. Raised eyebrows, combined with a smug smirk? Hmm. Ron nodded in his direction, a nod of acknowledgement, as if he understood more than Loki did of proceedings. Which he probably did, between Hermione and Jane.

In a moment of impartiality, perhaps caused by Sirius, with his grin and his hands in his jeans pockets, he hated them all. That was, he decided, the meaning of family.


	104. The Ministry in Denial

**Chapter One Hundred Four: The Ministry in Denial**

He hadn't forgot Luna, but there was something different between the way he thought of Ginny and the way he thought of Luna. Besides, there was nothing inherently…romantic about lending comfort to one distressed. It was…chivalrous. A ravenclaw could not be expected to appreciate such as much as did a gryffindor.

Loki had no idea where such boundaries were drawn,anyway. He could work a crowd, he understood what made people tick, but building a genuine relationship of any other kind than enmity or rivalry was a mystery, _terra incognita_, for him.

What did he know of friendship? Of family? Of love? He was the scholar-advisor, and then he was the criminal-freak. It was difficult for him to know where others would draw such boundaries.

All he knew was that, with Ginny this close, his heart was beating rather wildly, and he was shaking. He knew that he didn't love Luna, and rather suspected that she knew that she didn't love him, but he was… _unnerved_, by Ginny. Riddle had given them something in common. Which meant that only he could comfort her, reassure her that he was still he, not possessed, not under the Imperius, not brainwashed. He was particularly susceptible to all of those things, he knew, but he'd managed to fend them all off tonight. For the most part. But he could not allow himself to forget about his barriers, the price of their failure, no matter how tempting it be in the moment.

There was a moment of single-minded focus when the world seemed to reduce to just them, when he might have done any number of things that he would have regretted, later. Because Ginny would hate him after, because it might hurt Luna.

He was aware of her burying her head in his shoulder to avoid showing the world that she had been crying. He ran his fingers through her hair, which was, most unjustly, far less tangled than his (although he had great cause) thinking, mostly, of Mother, how a gentle touch was calming. Soothing. Ginny needed to calm down. And he was fairly sure that this worked on Hermione, given Ron's usual tactility. If you had an older brother with success in your current area of focus, you might as well take your cues from him.

"Shh, Ginny. I'm fine. Everything will be alright. Riddle will not hurt you, I promise," he said, and then his eyes widened as he realised what he had said. But he quite meant it, too. No one would harm Ginny under his watch—especially not _Riddle_, who had once before. "Don't worry about _me_. I'm tough, remember?"

She nodded, and gulped, and hiccupped, and then pulled away, eyes narrowing. He stared at her, but was unable to think of an excuse to make her stay. His gaze fell away from her and he swung his legs back over the bed, considering going over to the Diggorys. Mrs. Weasley chose just this moment to remember him again.

"Oh no, you don't, Harry," she said. Loki resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment, or, more likely, raise an eyebrow at her excessive mothering. Mother had never been overprotective.

Then again, not everyone could be like his mother.

"Better now, Ginny?" he asked, expression once more closed, his heartrate settling into something more regular. He already missed her warmth. She nodded, and reached for a box of tissues to dab at her eyes and blow her nose. She was pretty, even with her eyes rimmed with red and her face drooping. And she was so strong, so full of life. His fists clenched again at the thought of what Riddle had done to her. She seemed to have recovered, but that was before this year. He knew the situation had changed, now that Riddle had been resurrected. Revived.

"Haven't you taken your potions, yet?" Mrs. Weasley demanded, arms akimbo, as she stared him down. Perhaps she didn't realise that she had her wand in her left hand, or that it was sparking. At least Thor had an external justification for his eccentricities.

"I need to know what is happening," he said, again. "The danger is not passed until sunrise greets the new day. Until then, until I know that Crouch is in Azkaban, I cannot afford to let my guard down."

Tears brimmed in Mrs. Weasley's eyes, but he duly ignored her, gaze scanning the room again. He was halfway through the room when the door to the Hospital Wing opened, and Dumbledore entered, striding over to Madam Pomfrey.

"How is Alastor?" he asked, in a low voice that Loki nevertheless heard.

"He should recover," she said, in a stiff voice. "But he should be sent to St. Mungo's—"

"That is a difficult choice to make, given current circumstances. And Harry?"

Loki tried to seem as if he weren't looking. Dumbledore, deliberately or because Ron was better at hiding than previously assumed, did not seem to notice Ron listening in. Sirius was frighteningly casual about eavesdropping, leaning against the wall as if merely keeping watch.

"He hasn't taken his potions yet, Headmaster!" Mrs. Weasley screeched. "And we've told and told him, but he doesn't seem to think he's _safe_, as if you ran a military camp instead of a boarding school. I swear, I—"

"Harry," said Dumbledore, coming over to stand before his bed. "Why the delay?"

He was saved having to answer by a distraction in the form of the door being flung open, and Snape, McGonagall, and Fudge entering, emitting different levels of undiluted wrath. Their arrival was presaged by the sound of their bickering, audible even through the walls with the doors closed, which drew the attention of all present in the room. To judge by the words spoken before their entrance, something had happened. Minister Fudge had brought something into the castle "for his own protection", and something had gone wrong.

Straightaway upon entering, McGonagall led Snape and Fudge, twirling his bowler hat, over to Dumbledore.

"Now really, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "I expected better of you. I left you to guard Crouch—"

"Oh, there is no need to guard him, Albus! The Minister has seen to _that_."

And the eyes of the entire room were upon him.

"Now, really, woman, see sense!" Fudge began, but McGonagall, nostrils flaring,cut him off.

"I was watching Crouch, as you asked. Professor Snape went to fetch the Minister, who seemed to feel that his personal safety was in danger. He insisted upon bringing a dementor into the castle. Well, no sooner had it arrived into the room when it swooped down on Barty Crouch, and—and—"

Words failed her. Loki barely repressed a shudder (_show no weakness_), as it did not take a genius to figure out what had become of Crouch—why he no longer required guarding. The dementor had sucked out the entirety of his soul, via the Dementor's Kiss. His soul was lost beyond recall.

Fudge had brought a _dementor_, of all things, into the school for his own protection? It was just as well that Loki had been trapped here, in the Hospital Wing, although he would have been safer at Grimmauld Place. A weight landed on his shoulder, and he blinked, looking up to see that Thor had moved whilst he'd been focused on listening in on the conversation. Ah, well.

"Well, really, it's no big loss," Fudge blustered. "A Death Eater escaped from Azkaban, and a criminal—we don't even know how he escaped, but that's no matter—"

"It is very important, indeed, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, voice very grave. "He cannot now give testimony as to why he did what he did—or how."

"He wouldn't have been able to, regardless!" Fudge cried, scoffing. "He was a madman, clearly delusional—he seemed to believe that he was operating under You-Know-Who's orders, as if he could bring him back!"

Dumbledore leveled a stern look down his nose at Fudge. "But it was not nonsense. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has returned."

Fudge sputtered and choked. "What… Dumbledore, you can't believe this—"

"I have seen convincing evidence of his return."

"He's back!" Cedric cut in, rushing over to them. "I saw him myself. And Harry—Harry had to _fight_ him. You can't deny something like that."

"With all due respect, Mr. Diggory, and my heartfelt congratulations, I assure you, I think the night's events might have been…a bit too stimulating for you, seeing things that weren't there. And, as for Mr. Potter—"

He turned to face Loki here, who was studiously ignoring him. That invisibility had been nice whilst it had lasted.

"Well, I'm not sure… I've heard some rather odd rumours concerning him, as well…seems you've been hiding things from us. Having funny turns all over the place, is he? And a _parselmouth_—"

His lips seemed to be attempting to twitch into a smile—or perhaps the other way around, and he was attempting to suppress one. Loki kept his expression neutral, somehow, but his hands clenched tight.

"Are you doubting my godson's sincerity?" demanded Sirius, coming over to join them. He shot a brief, shrewd look in Loki's direction, but for the most part kept his gaze fixed on the current confrontation, hands in his pockets.

"Perhaps you ought to put less trust in a gossip than in a war hero (for that is what the headmaster is), Minister Fudge. Do you think he believes without cause?" Loki said, his voice so cold that some—including Fudge—shivered hearing him.

"And why should I believe _you_?" Fudge demanded. "He can't be back, this has to all be some sort of joke, Albus," he said, dismissing Loki to return his attention to the most important figure in the room, to his mind. Loki's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He _hated_ being overlooked. Thor's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"Patience, Brother," he said. "Peace."

Ginny gave them an odd look, but kept quiet, determined to listen in. Fudge was so loud in his masked anxiety that he drowned Thor out. That would have been quite the feat had Thor been speaking at full volume, but he was trying to be quiet, which made it a stroke of luck, instead.

"The sooner you accept the facts, the sooner you can begin preparing for the coming war. None of us want for this to be true, Cornelius. Accept that he is back, take measures against him—send envoys to the giants and the werewolves, those marginalised groups who felt that they had no choice but to side with him before. Prepare the—"

"'Envoys to the giants and werewolves'? You must be mad, Albus! I'd be pulled out of office so fast it would make your head spin."

For the third time that night, Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes blazed with power and fury. Fudge tried to pretend that he wasn't cowed, but he was spinning that ridiculous hat of his faster than usual, and full of nervous jitters.

"You are blinded, Cornelius, by the love of the office you hold!" Dumbledore shouted. "Take preventive measures now, and I promise you, you will go down in history as one of the greatest Ministers of Magic ever to live. Fail to prepare the people, and you will be remembered as the man who gave Voldemort a second opportunity to destroy the world we've worked so hard to rebuild!"

"But—but—!" stuttered Fudge. Most of the room was completely still, Hermione-fashion, as if to move would be to incur Dumbledore's wrath. Loki was listening, very hard, and was still as a statue as a result.

Snape glanced at Sirius, and then held out his left arm, rolling up his sleeve. Whatever was on there—doubtless the same Dark Mark branded upon Pettigrew's arm, by which he had summoned them—it made Fudge recoil.

"There!" he said, a bit breathless in his towering anger. "There! It is not as clear as it was an hour ago, when it burnt black, but you can still see it!"

"What is this, Dumbledore? Sending your staff members to show such disturbing images—what are you playing at?"

"He branded this symbol into the arms of each of his followers. When it burnt, we were to disapparate and apparate directly to his side. It's been growing clearer all year—Karkaroff's too—but tonight, when I saw it turn black, I knew that he had returned."

Fudge looked around the room, as if seeking for quarter, but even Madam Pomfrey seemed reluctant, but firm, in her dedication to Hogwarts and the Headmaster. None of those in the room were inclined towards sympathy to his plight. Sirius faced him with his hands in his pockets, eyes narrowed. There was no love lost between him and the Ministry that had condemned him to twelve years in Azkaban, without even a trial. Cedric was pale and shaking, but stood firm, and Mr. and Mrs. Diggory came up behind him as Loki watched, each wrapping an arm around him, in a silent show of support. Loki could stand to watch for about five seconds before he had to look away.

"I refuse to believe it. I don't know what you're playing at, Dumbledore, but you won't get the best of me!" Fudge cried, with an almost admirable defiance. If, you know, it weren't stupid and counterproductive, not to mention dangerous and ill-omened for the Wizarding World as a whole.

"I see we have reach a parting of the ways. Then you do as you see fit, and I—I shall do as I see fit," said Dumbledore, in an innocuous, bland voice, devoid of the radiant fury and power that had filled it minutes before. Fudge bristled, nevertheless, as if threatened.

"Now, see here, Dumbledore, I think I've shown you a great deal of lenity, over the years. Not everyone would have let you teach whatever you wanted without looking over the curriculum, or hire dangerous monsters like that werewolf and half-giant—"

Loki's fingers twitched. With Thanos's influence still creeping into his mind, it took a great amount of self-restraint, indeed, not to draw the Sword of Gryffindor, and force Fudge to see reason at sword-point. That wouldn't even count as using magic!

Thor saw, and shook his head. His grip tightened on Loki's shoulder, even as he looked back over his own at Fudge.

"I refuse to stay here and be threatened any longer. Expect a review of Hogwarts's curriculum in the coming months," Fudge fumed, as he stormed out.

The room as a whole looked back at the door as it slammed shut.

"Molly, am I right in thinking I can count on you and Arthur?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Mrs. Weasley, whose face was red with rage.

"Of course, Headmaster," she said. "Arthur and I know what Fudge is. It's love of his job that's held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride."

"Bill? Charlie?"

"Count us in," Charlie said, and Bill nodded.

"We'll fight!" said Fred-and-George. Dumbledore looked at them in stern disapproval.

"Only those who have reached age of majority may fight in the coming war," he said, which made no sense. Loki did not anticipate being permitted to wait for his seventeenth birthday before being drawn into the conflict.

"We believe you," said Mrs. Diggory, voice tight. "If Fudge wants to make this mistake, we'll do our best to convince people of the truth."

"He could have killed Cedric," said Mr. Diggory. "To have Cedric's experience dismissed like that. And you—Harry—I haven't expressed my gratitude. Thank you. Thank you for saving Cedric. I don't know how we can ever repay you, but we'll fight for you."

He crossed the room, holding out a hand for Loki to shake. Loki glanced at Thor, who withdrew with the immediate threat past. Loki shook the hand, examining this new Mr. Diggory. Hmm. Tempered at the forge, was he? But the trial of fire had yet to begin. They'd see where he was at the end of all this.

"You have my gratitude," he said. That might even be true. It certainly ought to be.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore continued, making his way through the room. Sirius had already been addressed, and Hermione and Ginny were underage. That left Professor McGonagall, who, as a gryffindor, was both predictable and rather reckless. Her head held high, she nodded her acceptance of Dumbledore's orders, and swept from the room once more.

"It is time, Severus," said Dumbledore, with a heavy voice. "If you are ready, I must ask you to take up your old post."

Snape looked very pale, and was perhaps shaking almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. Then, Dumbledore gave a nod to Snape, and a glance in Loki's direction, and Snape and Dumbledore left the Hospital Wing.

Yes. Tonight was going to last forever. He still needed to seal the corrupted corner of his mind back into its box—and that meant letting it out to play. He'd just have to outwait everyone else.

He could outwait almost anyone. He could wait.

* * *

"Well, go on, then," Hermione snapped. "Go off and hide at Sirius's place! But you'd better have answers for me, when you return."

A twinge of conscience—Hermione was being left out of a momentous secret, the kind of world-shattering secret that changed everything. She'd been patient, and let them keep it for over a year, but her patience had its limits. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Hermione had rarely cried since joining up with them, but she was crying now.

"Well, Brother?" Loki asked, narrowing his eyes at Thor, who shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and wanted something to fiddle with.

"We will tell you everything," he promised. "You deserve to know, but there was never a good time."

"There is rarely a _good_ time for the sharing of such secrets," Loki snapped. "Will you make your father's mistakes?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Harry?" Hermione demanded, arms folded in a very Thor pose. Loki blinked.

"An assurance that Ron does not back out of the agreement. We will explain to you, and you will understand. That is my promise to you, should Ron decide to attempt to postpone the inevitable once more."

"I have learnt my lesson," Thor proclaimed, which couldn't be true, but Loki let it pass. They had too little time to argue.

They made their way through the mostly still and quiet halls of Hogwarts to the Headmaster's Office. There was a part of him that wondered what Sirius had said that had convinced Dumbledore that they absolutely had to go to Grimmauld Place tonight, but, for the most part, he just needed to keep his attention on the current moment, and be grateful that he had managed to arrange it at all.

Fawkes trilled a hello to the both of them, and Loki felt obliged to give a cursory greeting, despite their parting ways only an hour ago. Then came the wonderful experience of floo powder, which at least was not a portkey. At the moment, the memory of tonight's events were still too fresh for him to tolerate portkeys. No amount of skill, or knowledge of magic, could prevent his falling on his face as he exited the other side, where Kreacher stopped skipping about the empty house to glare venomously at him. What a welcome.

Loki climbed to his feet, looking around the house again, as if he'd expected it to become a completely different place, what with who he was, and what he knew. But it still looked quite as dingy, drab, and unwelcoming as ever.

He wandered from the sitting room into the kitchen, thinking that he ought to find a place that he was _certain_ Sirius didn't mind having destroyed before he began. Also, he rather suspected that the corrupted corner of his mind would else have laid an ambush for those two, who were sufficient threats to its plans to merit such.

He waited for Thor and Sirius to enter the room, waited for them to be _ready_, somehow, before he closed his eyes, and let his barrier fall. That was the last he remembered of that night, and several more to come.


	105. To Prepare for the Coming War

**Chapter One Hundred Five: To Prepare for the Coming War**

To his lasting surprise, he did not feel that different once he had awoken, after what he was told had been five days, than he had before he'd lost awareness. He was in the Hospital Wing, as if he'd had some sort of minor accident on the quidditch pitch, instead of losing his mind and trying to take over the world again, or something. Even the headache had had a chance to subside, over the five days he'd been unconscious.

Ron, standing guard again, was the first to notice that he'd awoken. All he had to do was open his eyes, and turn his head slightly to the side, and Ron noticed. Perhaps it had been his turn to keep watch.

"He's awake!" Ron called out, and Hermione and Ginny appeared in Harry's line of sight even as he was turning his head to the left to look for them. Everything seemed to be moving very quickly, as if his reflexes, and even his mind, had slowed down. Or, perhaps, that was just a cooldown after a night filled with adrenaline. Ginny came to a stop, swaying, near his bed, but Hermione bent over him to cry on him, and try to suffocate him under a mess of bushy brown hair. Well, at least she cared.

He winced. Right, yes.

"Hello, Hermione," he said, "Ron. Ginny, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Of course you didn't. That's because you're an idiot," she said, in a voice that seemed rather strained and ragged, as if perhaps she were also on the verge of tears.

"What, did I die?" he asked, some acerbity creeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "No. Of course, Hermione is doing her best to rectify _that_."

Hermione punched him in the shoulder, showing that she was, indeed, spending too much time with Ron. He gave a token "ow" of protest, but didn't pay much attention, his mind shifting elsewhere. At least Sirius had the restraint and subtlety not to immediately swarm him. He was sitting next to Harry's bed, looking cool and relaxed, as if he hadn't worried at all. Harry wasn't entirely sure, but he thought Sirius had been there all along, just in a less upfront fashion.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" he asked.

Harry paused to take stock of his current state. His leg had been healed by Fawkes, and the damage from having his arm cut open for the ritual had never been noteworthy. The real question had to concern his mental state, and, he'd had less time than everyone else to acclimate to the new normal, whatever that was. However long he'd been out. Ron had said three days, in first year, and that he'd then _died_. Who knew?

He realised that he was still all a coherent whole, as he'd been the last he'd remembered, except the corrupted corner of his mind was sealed back within its container wall. There was no far-flung corner of himself left as a guardian of it; perhaps it had never been necessary. When the barrier held, it held. When it fell, they'd best hope that Ron was nearby…. He'd reassembled himself anyway, automatically, as a response to the threat of it breaking out, in the graveyard. Now, however….

Well, now he seemed to be like everyone else—those who didn't have sequestered-off pieces of their mind, who didn't think of themselves as a series of masks. He'd somehow pulled himself together into a coherent whole. He hadn't felt this way since…well, _ever_.

Once upon a time, he knew, he'd thought of himself as just Harry Potter. Before the dreams had started. But, somehow, despite that, he hadn't been as himself as he was now. Hmm.

He'd think about all of that later, he decided, or rather, not at all. He blinked, and looked up at Sirius.

"I feel much better, thanks! Except for Hermione's efforts to crush me to death."

Hermione glared at him, and sat up, wiping tears from her eyes again. Ginny came over to stand by his bedside, not seeming to realise that she was pushing Hermione out of the way. Sirius quirked an eyebrow, and Harry, without Hermione weighing him down, slowly sat up. Everything he did seemed very slow.

"How long was I out, then?" he asked. It was a question needing to be asked. Sirius and Ron exchanged a look, Sirius a bit paler than usual, unless that was the light.

"Five days," Ron said, at last, his voice almost flat, but carrying throughout the Hospital Wing. Harry glanced to his left, noticed that the Diggorys had gone, observed that it was only the five of them in the Hospital Wing. Remus was out gathering the old crowd. Presumably, Mrs. Weasley and the rest of her family were making their own preparations, and Fred-and-George were sulking. After that…Neville, Seamus, and Dean were the only other contenders, and they were, doubtless, not considered "family" enough to visit Harry. Not that he was counting visitors, the way Dudley counted presents (lest he be shortchanged).

"…Five days," he repeated, his voice flat. He glanced askance at Ron. "I hope they didn't bring me to the hospital, again."

"Ah…no. They decided that the risk was too great, given current circumstances, I believe," Ron said, sounding uncomfortable. Sounding as uncomfortable as might be expected if he also took the hidden meaning.

"Well, at least I'm all fixed, then!" Harry said, brightly. Everyone stared at him as if he'd grown two or three extra heads, and he pouted, folding his arms. "Oh, come on! It's not _that_ strange for me to be in a good mood."

Silence. He frowned. "It _isn't_!" he insisted, as if anyone had said anything.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" Ginny said, sounding a bit breathless and desperate. "When you wouldn't wake up, and wouldn't wake up, I thought, 'well, what has Ron done to you, now?' But I guess I blamed him for nothing."

"It wasn't Ron," Harry said, trying to keep his voice soft and therefore somehow reassuring. "I used too much magic…that night. I think I very nearly died. Ron saved me."

"I'm so sorry, Ron!" Ginny cried, and gave Ron a hug, which he clearly hadn't expected. He shook his head, but returned the gesture half-heartedly, as if this were some sort of torture Harry had subjected him to.

Speaking of torture Harry had to subject him to….

"Will someone send for Madam Pomfrey, already?" Harry demanded. "I'm fine, but I need to talk to Hermione and Ron about something. And maybe Sirius," he added, with a glance in Sirius's direction.

Ginny sniffed, and huffed, and he felt the need to add. "I'm flattered that you came to visit me, Ginny. I'm not sure what I did to deserve so much regard, though."

Ginny just muttered something under her breath about noble prats, folding her arms, and waiting as Madam Pomfrey appeared, as if out of nowhere, to re-examine Harry.

* * *

"I believe I owe you an apology," Harry said, shifting on his feet, looking down at the floor, and reminding himself of _Harry_ Harry, before he'd known anything about his past life. He felt very much as if he were only fourteen.

Cedric blinked, and frowned, turning from looking out the window. "Oh, hullo, Harry," he said. "What do you think you owe me an apology for? What you said the other day—it's all so incredible, I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around it, but I don't know how…."

"I was quite rude, wasn't I?" Harry mused. "That night. And I shouldn't have bound you up that way, as I did with that promise I had you make—"

Cedric gave a little laugh that was difficult for Harry to understand. "No, I get it. I just don't know…I mean, this changes everything."

Harry came up to stand beside him. "Does it? Have you spoken with Ron?"

Cedric swallowed, and looked down. "Ye-yeah. It's just all too much to take in. I can't believe that he's—that you're—"

Words failed him. Harry heaved a sigh, trying to see what lay outside the window that had so captured Cedric's attention. He saw nothing noteworthy. Perhaps, for a quidditch player, looking out at the sky was assurance enough. Perhaps it was constant enough….

"I understand how you feel," Harry said, without looking at him. "It took me _years_ to come to terms with it all. I know you were raised Christian, which makes it harder for you. Just as long as you don't treat Ron as if he's some sort of demon or monster, I think we're okay. It was very brave of you, standing up to the Minister…the other night."

"What about you?" Cedric asked, frowning, turning to face Harry.

"We're not asking for your worship, Cedric. Just help me fight against You-Know-Who, and I'll ask nothing else of you. Ron's a hero. Unless he ended your conversation with a series of demands (and I doubt that he did) he'll fight for you along with the rest of the Wizarding World, regardless of beliefs and ideologies. You give him too little credit, and me too much."

He paused, then, trying to swallow the next question that wanted to be asked, but it was the stubbornest one. He rested his elbows on the windowsill, and wouldn't look at Cedric. If he didn't look, perhaps he'd be able to convince himself that Cedric wasn't even there.

"I…I don't suppose he told you who we were. Who he is. Who _I_ was." He turned to face Cedric at last. Cedric looked as if he had just been asked to divulge rather personal information.

"Well…" he began, and Harry sighed.

"Hermione still does not know," he said, turning back to the window. "I think I've convinced Ron to speak with her. It's only…this isn't the sort of thing that people are ready to hear about, yet. Particularly in the Wizarding World. And, if he happened to mention the Chitauri Invasion—"

Of course, he had. Harry glanced at the fidgeting Cedric, and then turned around to lean back against the wall, and the windowsill.

"Redemption is an elusive target," Harry said. "I refuse to make it more so by demanding respect from you that I have not earned. If we can remain friends, then that is favour enough for me."

Cedric blinked, but seemed to be trying to smile, somewhere behind his slackjawed expression.

"I—sure, yeah," he said, almost incoherent. Perhaps he was thinking that not just anyone could honestly claim to be friends with a god.

"In that case, allow me to apologise for my behaviour the other night," Harry said, glancing at the floor, unable to meet Cedric's gaze. Apologies were always hard to make.

"Hey, I was just grateful that you saved me from getting killed by—by Pettigrew, and You-Know-Who—"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," said Harry, smirking and spreading his hands wide. He frowned when Cedric took a step back, seeming a bit uneasy. "That's his real name. Figured you deserved it, after what you went through. Then, I went and bound you around in an unbreakable promise. I have much to make amends for, and I seem determined to make matters worse."

"Don't worry about it," Cedric said, holding out a hand to shake, which would have made little sense, if he hadn't added. "Congratulations, by the way."

Harry cocked his head, but took the hand offered. "And to you. Have you considered what you want to do after you graduate?"

Cedric visibly relaxed, now that all the talk of gods was over. "Well, at first I thought I might go into the Ministry—but not now. I think I might take an internship at St. Mungo's after the excitement dies down, but I don't see myself working for the Ministry any time soon. In the meantime, I think I'll find some sort of muggle job with flexible hours, so that I can fight in the war. I didn't think that that was what I'd be doing after I graduated, but hey!"

"Yes. Riddle does seem to complicate everyone's plans. I can think of no better path to redemption than defeating him, and then becoming an auror."

Cedric stared. "I…can almost see that," he admitted. "Which is a really weird thought. And I suppose Ron will join you?"

He still seemed a bit unnerved, glancing around after he spoke of Ron as if expecting Ron to suddenly appear when mentioned. That was Stephen's thing, however.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said, with an innocent smile. "You'd have to ask him."

* * *

"Wow!" Hermione gushed, looking around the Room (which had outdone itself, as usual) in awe, as even Harry had to resist the urge to tap his feet in impatience. It wasn't _that_ impressive, in spite of everything. It had replicated the room in which he'd first met Sirius, complete with coffee table. There wasn't a broken cage anywhere to be seen, however.

Sirius had sat this one out, claiming that he was busy. For some reason, Harry didn't believe him. It was clear that he thought that, as this had started with Harry and Ron, it had to end with them, too. Besides, three against one were hardly fair odds. Two against one was bad enough.

Harry underscored the resemblance by sending away the door, but Hermione did not seem to care at all.

"It becomes _anything_ you need? Do you have any idea what an extraordinary work of magic that makes this?" she asked, grabbing at Harry's shoulders in her excitement. He noted somewhere in the back of his mind that he neither flinched nor recoiled (which had her narrowing her eyes in overt suspicion), but he did lean backwards, shying away a bit, because Hermione was threatening in her enthusiasm.

"Yes, Hermione," he said, voice very flat. "I am aware."

As was anyone with any capacity for logic _or_ thought.

Hermione pouted, but turned back to face Harry.

"Oh, okay, what's the big secret?" she asked, and Harry sat down with less grace and greater speed than he might have wished. Hermione could be quite fixated on her goals. Not returning the Map until she'd caught Skeeter (and Harry had reawakened, but whatever) was only a recent example. They could, all three of them, be rather stubborn when they wanted to be. When there were important matters at hand.

"It's a complicated, lengthy tale, which is difficult to tell," Harry said, as if he had to buy Ron time. "You're a bit late to hearing about it, because I left the decision to Ron as to when to tell you, and he could never find the right time, apparently. Well, he took long enough to tell _me_—I suppose you know that that was what we were fighting about, third year. Since Ron has never yet explained his part well, I'll minimise his role in this by explaining the majority, and give him yet another chance to explain the rest. I suppose Stephen will show up, somehow, at the end of this. He might be able to clear some things up."

"Who?" asked Hermione, frowning, brow furrowed, as she tried to figure out, perhaps, how there could be any person at Hogwarts whom she _hadn't_ heard of.

"We'll get to him," Harry said. "He's a friend of ours. And yours, as it turns out. From the future. I told you this was complicated."

Hermione looked as if she might be dizzy. She sat down on the sofa, quite abruptly. Ron surprised him by sitting down beside her, and wrapping an arm protectively around her. Harry held up his hands in an I'm-harmless gesture.

Of course, Ron had had the common sense not to let anyone take the Sword of Gryffindor from Harry, so Harry was still doubly armed. He hadn't gotten around to switching the sword and fang yet, so it was just as well. He would have hated to have been forced to resort to breaking into Dumbledore's office to steal the sword.

"I know you like to have all the facts laid out before you, before you get into details, so I'll start with those. First of all, Ron is a god. As in, an actual _god_ god, and probably one that someone as well read as you has heard of."

"You're joking," Hermione said, putting her head in her hands. "Ron, tell me he's joking."

Ron withdrew, instead. "Er," he began, which was just about as strong of a start as Harry had any right to expect. He rolled his eyes.

"But—but he _can't_ be. He just _can't_," she protested, an undertone of hysteria creeping in. Harry tried very hard not to roll his eyes at this overreaction. It probably didn't even seem one to her.

"Whyever not, Hermione?" Harry asked, staring at her across the table. "Come on, Hermione: look at me, and tell me why not."

"B-because…that's just…I mean, _crazy people_ think they're gods, and, well, I suppose _you're_ crazy, Harry—"

"Thanks ever so much for the vote of confidence—" Harry muttered under his breath. She might not even have heard.

"—But _Ron_ knows better," she insisted, with a sniff.

"Ask him for any proof you need. I don't even know why you find this so far-fetched."

Ignoring the fact that he'd taken four years to come to terms with his own identity.

Ron's gaze was stern and full of reproach. "He speaks the truth," Ron said, instead, sounding slightly surprised to be saying such words.

Harry scowled. It couldn't be _that_ incredible.

"But—but that's not _possible_," Hermione said, with mounting hysteria. Ron had the sense not to try to reassure her. She stared, wide-eyed, across the table at Harry, instead. "What have you _done_ to him, Harry?" she demanded, tears in her eyes.

Harry stood. "_I_?" he repeated. "What, do you think that my insanity is catching, Hermione? Are you concerned for yourself?"

"Little brother," said Ron, his tone laced with a generous dollop of warning, rebuke, _tread carefully_. Harry sat back down, again.

"Shall I continue listing facts, then?" asked Harry, with such abrupt levity that even Hermione, who often got lost in details, noticed and knew. "Ron is a god, he can prove it, or he could if most of his divine powers wouldn't make this room catch on fire. Of course, I'm sure that you know _aguamenti_, but I'm not sure it would be sufficient."

Ron looked decidedly sheepish, at this, and would not look at either of them. Hermione opened her mouth to say something in protest, and Harry held up a hand to silence her.

"I suppose I made a similar mistake to his, and started in the wrong place, with the wrong facts. Let me say this, then, Hermione: I am the reincarnation of a god. There, nice and crazy for you, is it not? But I can prove it, Hermione. For, no matter the reason, I have retained a more limited capacity to use my old abilities in magic. Shall I show you what non-wizarding magic looks like? Of course, there's also sorcery, but Stephen is the only person I know who can use that."

"Harry, don't you think that's a bit crazy, even for you?"

"What did you _just_ finish saying, Hermione?" he asked, shaking his head, slowly, as if from disbelief. "And I promised you proof. But, for the moment, I am still listing facts. I have told you that Ron is a god, one of whom you have heard, and that I once was the same. In a past life. My mother in this life is the reincarnation of _Ron's_ mother in his past life, where I was his adopted younger brother. Yes, I know this is all rather involved, Hermione. Don't interrupt."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him in a cutting glare. He recognised a dagger-glare when he saw one. Hermione was alarming enough on a good day. He hastened to press on.

"I suppose I should mention the whole deal with the Chitauri Invasion, too. But, that would necessitate explaining the Infinity Stones, for it to truly make sense. Even Sirius, whom we told at Christmas Break, didn't know about those until a week ago. Let's see: All you need to know at the beginning (I promise we'll go into more depth later, but I know that you need a basic framework, and to accept that framework, before we go giving you details) is that they're leftover pieces of the beginning of time, and contain immense power. They're about the size of the Philosopher's Stone, so about the size of a marble."

He held out his left hand, fingers and thumb spread apart, at about the right size. Hermione didn't interrupt, apparently deciding that it would be best to _listen_ to his entire complicated tale before interrupting. If Ron was lucky, he'd also get to tell his.

"No one knows the location of all of these artefacts, but some basic facts about them are common knowledge, for all that I have never heard mention of them, nor read about them, in books here in the Wizarding World.

"Each of them represents an aspect of the world, and allows a skilled wielder great control over those aspects. One of them, for instance, is composed of raw power, able to be channeled for great good or ill, especially if you were to use it in conjunction with the others. That is the Power Stone. Another allows instantaneous travel from one point in the universe to the other. It is, accordingly, called the Space Stone, which sounds a bit silly taken out of context. There are others: the Mind Stone, the Soul Stone, the Time Stone, the Reality Stone. Each of them is filled with a great deal of power, in addition to having control over aspects of the cosmos. And an ordinary human could never handle that raw power. It would tear them apart, or something equally nasty. The texts back home weren't exactly clear."

Hermione could not have made it clearer that she wanted very much to speak, but he ignored her mouthed repeat of the words "back home" to continue his impromptu lecture.

"The Tesseract, a very old artefact which served as a vessel-container for the Space Stone, has been on Earth for…a very long time. I don't know how long. During World War II, a special Nazi group you might remember from history class, named HYDRA, used its power to create weapons, among…other things. Captain America, whom I know you've heard of, was lost in the ice after having acquired it. It was recovered when they found him in the ice, although he won't awaken for another…two decades, I think?"

Hermione stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from interrupting. He was almost tempted to go easy on her, seeing that, but he forged on, instead. He glanced to the side, to see Ron looking, of all things, thoughtful. He blinked at the incongruous sight, and tried to keep his focus squarely fixated upon Hermione.

"An American government agency of super-spies—I think they're American. I assumed they were. Maybe they're worldwide. Hmm. Anyway, an organisation known as S.H.I.E.L.D. got their hands on the Tesseract, and, being human, they dared not to extract the Stone from within it. But they, as HYDRA had before them, used the power of the Stone to make weapons, as well. Although, I think they waited to start that until certain beings whom some might be inclined to be called _'gods_' returned to this world. I doubt anyone outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. knows all of the details, however, or could say for sure how long they were about such experimentation."

"But anyway, the return of gods to this world (or that was how it looked to them) meant that they felt they needed the extra firepower.

"However, that in turn caught the attention of a being from even further away than the gods who had…_invaded_ New Mexico. He brainwashed one of the aforementioned gods, and sent him to take over the Earth, in exchange for the Tesseract, and the Infinity Stone contained within it. In return, he lent him the Mind Stone, which basically could be used to an effect similar to the Imperius Curse. It was how he'd brainwashed that god to begin with.

"What followed was, naturally, a pitched battle, in which a team of superheroes fought off the army he'd also sent to help in retrieving the Tesseract, _and_ the god, who was taken back home for sentencing and punishment. This group of superheroes was known as the Avengers, and included the wayward god's brother, you know, and Captain America. And Tony Stark, amongst other people whom I can't expect you to have ever heard of."

"Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and Dr. Bruce Banner," Ron interrupted. Harry glanced at him askance.

"Of course, no one knew about that far-off entity; they thought that Loki had done it all of his own free will. But S.H.I.E.L.D. kept the Mind Stone that had been embedded into a staff so that it could be handled without the being having to touch it (or any of his subordinates; I think he could have touched it, himself), and Asgard reclaimed the Tesseract, which its king had left here long, long ago. _That's_ the future…about as much as I know of it, in summary form, anyway."

Hermione's head was spinning. She looked as if she might faint. Harry shrugged at Ron's glare, as if asking what more he was expected to do. There was silence for a moment.

"And I suppose you're claiming that you and Ron are those two gods mentioned in your story. Loki, and…and you didn't mention the other one, but I know that's Norse Mythology. But, all the records are so old, and have been Christianised; it's hard to tell what was changed to facilitate proselytising."

"_Thor_ and Loki. And believe me, before I remembered everything, I did research on the subject. I know how difficult it is to try to put the truth together with such wildly varying sources," Harry said, with a flippant wave of his hand.

"Thor was redheaded in one of the books I read. Red hair, blue eyes… but no one seemed to have any idea what Loki looked like. Harry, this is _insane_."

"Yes, well, my mind is not as stable as it ought to be," he said, and her eyes widened. Her heart forgot to beat for a few moments, as she put two and two together, the blood draining from her face.

"You—you're saying that _Ron_ is Thor, and _you're_ Loki?" she demanded, and he tried to pretend that it didn't bother him.

"You're very quick on the uptake, Hermione."

Her response was to bury her head in her hands. Ron laid a hesitant hand upon her shoulder, as if thinking she might whirl around and slap him. It didn't seem terribly out of character for her.

"You're telling me that _you_ got brainwashed by some…some alien being, and tried to take over the world, and…and…."

Words failed her. He leant back, as if he didn't care at all.

He winced.

"Well, _Thor_, would you care to continue the tale? Another chance for you to explain this in a way that makes sense. I won't hold my breath."

Hermione looked back and forth between them.

"This is insane. You're _both_ insane," she said. Her hysteria had brought her to the brink of tears.

"Ah, Hermione—" Ron began, hesitant, but she glared at him, and he quietened. Harry smirked, but then his expression leveled out, and he looked away, before leaning forwards again.

"Well?"

This time, Thor began the story in the middle, which should probably be considered progress. He told of the emergence of the Aether, of bringing Jane to Asgard for treatment, the death of the queen (Harry's heart clenched, even after all the mentions before), of freeing Loki from his cell that he might show Thor another way out of Asgard.

Hermione wanted to ask about the Rainbow Bridge, here, but Harry cut her off, insisting that that was a detail, and she was missing the bigger picture. She glared at him, but shut her mouth again.

Thor relived the Convergence—how Loki had died in the battle against Malekith and the Dark Elves (which was a new story for Harry), preventing the Elves from returning the universe to a primordial time, and then how Thor'd grieved for the halving of his family.

At last, he'd appealed to his father for any way to save them, his mother and younger brother both, and he was sent back in time by powerful magic, to reunite in the same world that his mother and younger brother had been born into. The rest stood for itself.

"I don't believe you," she insisted. Harry cocked his head, glancing at her askance, and drew the Sword of Gryffindor out of thin air. She stared. "That—that wasn't there before, was it?"

"Of course it was. It was under an illusion that made it seem as if it weren't," he said, as if that were the simplest thing in the world, and she was being quite slow for not already figuring it out.

Thor gave him a sharp look, finally figuring out that Harry had had the Sword all along.

"You never gave it back did you, Brother? After the ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets, you kept the Sword of Gryffindor."

His voice was accusatory, but Harry just smiled, and then clapped. "I _was_ wondering when you might figure that out. You're making progress, at long last."

Hermione resumed staring back and forth between them.

"Would someone please wake me up, now?" she asked, burying her face in her hands. This time, Ron slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She did not seem to have the energy to resist. She wrapped an arm around him and buried her face in his shoulder, instead. Even though he was part of the reason she was in tears. Was there any consistency to her?

"Anything else?" she asked, after she'd stopped crying, with much effort put towards that goal on Ron's part. He kept his arm wrapped around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She might have reached the point where she resolved to think of all this, later.

Harry built a ball of pure white light, and sent it up towards the ceiling. Wizarding magic couldn't do anything remotely similar, as far as he knew. He shrugged. "That's all the basics. Well, except for Stephen—"

He cut himself off, as a ring of orange light formed in the room. He blinked at it, staring for a moment, before shaking his head, as a man in dark robes quite different from wizarding ones stepped out of it.

"Ah, Stephen!" he said, ignoring Hermione's sputtering about how _you can't apparate or disapparate on Hogwarts grounds_. "You're right on time."

_A sorcerer is never late_, he might have thought to himself, had he known the reference. _Nor is he early. He arrives __**precisely**__ when he means to._

Stephen had to make the reference, instead.

{_end Book IV: Reweave Fate_}


	106. It's a Small World

**author's note:** There's a few reasons why Book V is a popular one for crossovers. First, there's a war brewing. That's always promising. Then, too, there's Umbridge. Seeing how crossover characters handle her is always fun. And, there's also the D.A., and Sirius's death.

There was a long hiatus between me reading books 4 and 5, in which I occasionally reread the first four books, and changed my mind about a lot of characters (and whined about a lot of plot holes, and perceived plot holes).

Book 5 was okay, and it felt enough like the other books for me to respect it, but I never _liked_ it, as I liked the others, for however long I liked any of them.

It was the last book to fit those qualifications. Books 6 and 7 bored me to tears.

In other words: books 1-4 are in one category, book 5 is in its own category, and I'll barely acknowledge books 6-7. Incoming divergence?

These first few chapters are the last I wrote before reviews for _Endgame_ started coming out, so they've been edited less to reduce the influence of it.

(Sorry I'm late. My computer hates me. On the plus side, my risky bypass worked!)

* * *

**Chapter One Hundred Six: It's a Small World**

Rita Skeeter had been keeping very quiet following Hermione's expertly-handled blackmail. Fred and George were being very cautious with the five hundred galleons Harry had forced upon them under threat of hexing at the end of the year.

Hermione had still been digesting all the news when they'd left Hogwarts for the year. She'd pretended that it wasn't eating away at her, and her primary focus of discussion, after making plans for the coming war, of course, were Dumbledore's speech, and Minister Fudge's threat to interfere at Hogwarts.

Harry was alone at Number Four, Privet Drive. This year, he was not to have the protection of Sirius, who needed to prioritise cleaning out Grimmauld Place, to make it safe for human habitation. Defences were being added to make it the ultimate headquarters. Sirius had kept his promise to keep Harry up-to-date on goings-on in the Order. Remus, too, often sent hints and updates on Order business. They weren't supposed to—Dumbledore had given out orders—but they were not about to trifle with their old friend, or to deny their best friend's son of knowledge he needed to stay afloat after recent events. Sirius took pains to remind him that he'd much rather even that Harry were here at Grimmauld Place with him.

_No one else is as good of company as you are_, he wrote. _Although we do have your brother over here, now. He's driving even Remus up the walls with worry. Just hang tight: we'll come get you as soon as there's a ready excuse._

With Sirius stuck in his hated childhood home, Harry's only defence, such as it was, was the hidden Sword of Gryffindor, which he'd taken to carrying with him everywhere even before Dumbledore had called him to the office to, essentially, okay the idea.

To think he'd expected to have it confiscated! But, it seemed that, for once, they were agreed about what was in his best interests. It might be the last time they ended up agreeing, too.

Hermione, being Hermione, was sticking to the spirit and letter of the law, and refusing to tell him anything important, even encoded, as Sirius and Remus's letters were. Part of it might be that she didn't know how to use ciphers. Most of it was, doubtless, a rather unquestioning view of authority. Dumbledore Had Spoken, and thus Hermione refused to disobey. Of course, Sirius and Remus suggested that, most likely, information on the actual proceedings of the Order were much less widely-known than the Weasley brood (and Hermione) thought. Harry was probably better informed than any of them.

This thought was of some reassurance to him, and the Sword of Gryffindor made for a reassuring weight at his side. He brought it with him, hidden in a scabbard, and then under a thick covering of magic that rendered it invisible. To any outside observer, he would seem utterly defenceless, and he was still rather shorter and scrawnier than anyone else his age. Despite that, his reputation preceded him, and none dared trifle with "that delinquent Potter boy".

As per Remus and Sirius's request, he sent very few letters to Order Headquarters (aka Grimmauld Place), waiting for Dumbledore to call him thither. This prospect grew progressively less likely as summer went on.

His mind churned over the possible motives of both Dumbledore and Riddle, wherever either of them were. He had never been more tempted to subscribe to _The Daily Prophet_, but it was hard to trust the accuracy of any newspaper that published Rita Skeeter. The most honest thing she'd printed in her life was her sordid history of Tom Riddle, which the Ministry seemed determined to somehow try to incorporate into their "he's most definitely dead" theory.

It was, of course, seventy-five percent fiction. Rita must have wanted to write romance novels, but failed, and turned a certain flair and ability to tug at her readers' emotions to journalism, instead. Why else had she wasted so much time pursuing every "romantic interest" Riddle had ever "had"?

Still, it had been good for a laugh, and he'd needed those. It was his entirely selfish justification for foisting off the entirety of his winnings from the Triwizard Tournament onto the Twins. The money in the family vault would more than pay for his schooling. Sirius Black had named him his sole heir (with exceptions made, in the rare event that someone with his reputation somehow managed to have a child). And Harry planned on going into the auror field once he'd defeated Riddle, anyway. Offing a Dark Lord had to qualify as field training, if nothing else, along with all those end-of-year adventures…and, of course, the Tournament itself….

He kept his eyes and ears open for any hint as to what Riddle might be doing, any suspicious thing that the Order, being firmly entrenched as it was in the Wizarding World (Jealous? Who, he?) might have missed or overlooked.

There was nothing but an exceptionally dry, hot summer, the sort that raised fire hazard warnings as red flags across the country. It was all very humdrum, mundane, boring current events, at least as far as semi-local news went. There were plenty of wars and natural disasters out further afield, but _this_ particular war was being fought quietly. Fudge had decided that Dumbledore was suddenly after his office. He was fortifying his political barricades, and ignoring the looming hurricane.

There were smart politicians, and then there were idiots. It couldn't be denied that Fudge fit that latter camp perfectly. And, apparently (Sirius had broached this _very_ carefully, in his letters), the _Prophet_ had launched a smear campaign. This was why freedom of the press was so important: the _Prophet_ was in the Ministry's pocket. What Fudge said, went. And now, it was putting all the non-pureblood supremacists in Wizarding Britain in danger.

Trapped though he was at Number Four, Harry turned his hand almost immediately to the important pursuits of planning for two different wars. Stephen had the sense not to check in on him, while he was staying at the Dursleys…or, perhaps, Harry's future self had never shown him the location of Number Four, which seemed a very good idea. He could safely spend his time practising the _other_ sort of magic, making plans for war, and reanalysing previous conclusions about Sirius, and how to treat the aftereffects of Azkaban. Sirius might have found himself a girlfriend, were his first priority not seeing this war through to its end.

Dumbledore had left Harry to stew here at Number Four, perhaps waiting for him to reach a boiling point (why were old men the most inscrutable?), without ever once contacting him, or indeed, allowing anyone else to contact him. It was a far cry from his behaviour only last month, and Harry spent his free time trying to parse it out. He had little time to spare for the obvious meanings behind his nightmares of the graveyard, and strange dreams concerning a subterranean network of corridors, and a black door.

He would later think that he could doubtless afford to be forgiven for forgetting about practising occlumency, when he had so many other important things to think on. Mother had resumed teaching him how to heal, and he was continuing to deepen and strengthen his magical reserves. He kept up any number of easily-overlooked spells at any given time, including in his sleep, which made him rather more tired than he would ordinarily have been, even without the nightmares to consider.

All told, he barely gave the Dursleys any heed at all, and they were…somewhat discouraged from their usual strategies to keep him in line by their memories of Harry's dogfather (who totally deserved a "World's best Dogfather" mug, if ever Harry found one). He'd made quite an impression on them, it seemed.

"Where's that criminal freak? Did he grow tired of you?"

Well, most of them were cowed by him, still. Some of them were too stupid to understand basic concepts.

"He's cleaning out his old house. It's a rather dangerous place, filled with far worse than dirt and mould. It fights back," he said, ignoring all the other nonsense Dudley had packed into his questions. He might not even realise that the insults were there, although he'd historically been good at recognising their presence, at least. It seemed that no one was too stupid to realise when they were being blatantly insulting and offensive. Which didn't mean he'd put it past Dudley to be the exception.

There was a certain confidence in Sirius's love for him that he was unused to. It was the love of a parent for his child, which was unconditional, everlasting. Of course, Harry was also one of Sirius's closest friends, and one of his old teachers, which complicated matters, but usually, that familial affection won out over everything else. Sirius was his third father, and, as he was the Thor of this world, complete with that ultra-masculinity that meant that he could afford to be more open about emotions, without people looking down on him, softer.

It wasn't James's fault that he was absent from Harry's life; he might have gone on to be an amazing dad; Sirius seemed to think so, and Remus agreed, but then, absence made the heart grow fonder, as the saying went. Sirius was fulfilling that role in James's stead. And Harry had no memory of ever meeting James; his knowledge was all in fragments, in those few minutes of _Priori Incantatem_, in the few seconds before Riddle had slain James.

He'd had a biological father in his past life—that father had most likely never wanted him, or he would have sought him out, retrieved him, fought for him, as Lily Evans had fought for him, as James Potter had fought for him, for different reasons.

Which meant that there was only a third candidate for father figure. The most controversial, but Thor had forced him to come around. Different societies. Different times. And a king could never afford to behave in ways his subjects were free to humour.

Harry'd forgiven him. But, he was still on the fence about how good of a father Odin was. That was probably petty. That was doubtless unfair. But here, at Number Four, he was fortunate if his mind pursued such innocuous thoughts.

All of his attention was on the coming wars, and what remained was divided amongst the other things he valued, things that might better be considered preparation for the wars. He had little attention to spare for the Dursleys. He tuned out the forewarning that they were having another business guest over for dinner. He had better things to think on. Of course such a visitation would happen whilst Sirius was away; convenient for the Dursleys, although it made treating him as they had before the sudden reappearance of his dogfather an irresistible lure.

They vacillated between wanting to kick him out onto the street for the duration of their guest's visit, and locking him back in his bedroom, with orders to pretend that he didn't exist. The neighbours were more likely to notice the former than the latter—everyone was afraid of "that delinquent Potter boy", and thus they kept tabs on him. Better to lock him up in his room.…

Let him check his calendar. Let's see…yes, his birthday was just around the corner. This seemed to happen a lot. Only his eleventh birthday had been attended by _good_ news. His twelfth had carried with it threats of expulsion (when he was to spend the day upstairs in his room, pretending that he didn't exist, and making no noise, as they were favouring for this year), his thirteenth had been the worst, with the arrival of Aunt Marge. Sirius had broken the rule by taking him to London, but with him gone, life fell back into its old habits.

And, he was going to spend this next birthday (was there a need to ask who the visitor was, or when he was expected to come? No.) up here, making no noise, and pretending he didn't exist.

Unless he were trapped outdoors, in the middle of a heatwave. The Dursleys still seemed determined to kill him off. Perhaps he should be grateful to be trapped upstairs in his room (they mightn't lock the doors, and in case of emergency, he could pick the lock). But it only made him wish that he were even at the wholly unwelcoming Grimmauld Place, with his _family_, instead. What was Dumbledore doing?

He did not ask who their visitor was. That turned out to be a mistake. He should have realised by now that life loved laughing at him.

-l-

The last thing he'd expected—although in retrospect it was the _first_ thing that he should have expected—was to open the door to the house to go out to do his chores—a full _day_ before their mysterious guest was to arrive, to find him standing on the front porch, fist poised to knock. He must have some sort of aversion to doorbells, was Harry's rather inane first thought.

Then he glanced at their guest, and thought that it was someone he ought to recognise, which instantly made him wary, thinking of Death Eaters and wars and CONSTANT VIGILANCE!, as he'd heard at least ten times in the week that Moody—the _real_ Moody—spent at Hogwarts, before they took the train back to King's Cross.

Harry took a step backwards, stumbling slightly, wrong-footed at the unexpected encounter. The man smirked, and tried to push his way inside. Harry regained his physical and mental equilibrium, and casually grabbed onto the doorframe, to brace himself.

He identified the visitor, and his body locked into place for a moment. _Impossible_, his mind tried to tell him. But, it couldn't be impossible, or it wouldn't be happening. Although, really, this could only happen to him.

"Are you the business associate due to arrive for dinner on July Twenty-Eighth?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. You would think that he didn't recognise the man at all, but he did. Some people are hard to forget. This man went out of his way to ensure that no one _could_ forget him. Still, Harry pretended not to recognise him. He was himself just as famous in the Wizarding World. That made them equals, no matter what anyone else thought.

Well, that and something else. "—because if you are, I would suggest that you check your calendar, or your planner, as you've mistaken today's date. You are a day early, with my apologies to you."

He was trying very, very hard to be polite. And it had absolutely nothing at all to do with the Dursleys. His mind was fixated on his goals, as it had been all summer. Two wars he was planning for, and where others might see an unexpected setback, an obstacle, a wrench in the works, he saw an opportunity…if he just knew how to exploit it. He was, however, a source of localised chaos. He was best at winging it. He could do this. He wished Ron or Sirius were here, but you couldn't have everything.

The man pulled out a cell phone, boxy and buly, from where he had somehow stowed it in his pocket, peering down at it, as if unconcerned by either what Harry had said, or his own audacity. Harry was sure that, no matter how huge and ungainly the thing was, it was several years ahead of any other model, of anything that you could buy.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked, with an arrogant smirk, as if to say, _We can do this the easy way, or the hard way_.

"No," Harry said. "Please leave." He started to close the door, thinking that its solid thickness might force the billionaire back. Worth a shot, anyway.

Stark looked up from his phone at that, a brief flash of surprise crossing his face. "'_No_'? Do you know who I am, kid?"

He hated being talked down to. And, that smug entitlement reminded him too much of Malfoy. "Yes," he said, the politeness gone. "I just don't care. Please come back tomorrow, Mr. Stark. Or not at all, if that fits your schedule better."

And he closed the door in Tony Stark's face.

* * *

Upon reflection, that might not have been the best choice for how to deal with the man, but he had to admit that Stark had gotten under his skin, as he seemed to do with just about everyone. Privately, Harry suspected that the Avengers had taken so long to unite together owing _just_ to Stark's ability to try the patience of a saint, which was essentially what Captain America was. However, he should have asked Ron more questions while he'd had the chance. But, how was _he_ to know that Stark would show up on his front doorstep this summer? The man was _American_! He hadn't thought their paths would cross until he'd had a chance to finalise his plans and begin to set them into motion.

Despite knowing that Uncle Vernon would be furious if it indeed happened, he couldn't help hoping that he'd somehow ruined Uncle Vernon's business prospects. Suppose Stark were their business associate, and suppose he was so offended that he never showed up on the morrow. But, it was hard to imagine someone like Stark holding such a grudge. He was the human embodiment of the phrase "water off a duck's back" as far as Harry could tell. Of course, ducks didn't routinely try to force their way into people's homes with only half an invitation—at least, as far as Harry knew.

He sat up in his room, disregarding his uncle's instructions to make no noise and pretend he didn't exist, deciding that he could work on battle plans, instead. While keeping up a magic light, at that.

But, before he could get settled or too absorbed in his thoughts, there was the heavy thud he recognised as footsteps on the stairs—his uncle's heavy footfalls—and he froze, thinking of the summer before second year, when Dobby had tried to get him expelled from Hogwarts. For want of a better plan, he called off the hanging light, and willed his plans invisible. He knew better than to assume that there was _time_ to hide them better. He would be able to track down his own magic, should they attempt an escape.

He hid them just in time, as Uncle Vernon flung open the door, with an abrupt violence that had Harry flinching, as before a raised fist.

"What have we said about answering the door, boy?" Uncle Vernon demanded in a towering fury that had Harry shrinking back automatically. He didn't flinch at Hermione, or Ron, or Sirius, or Remus, or even Ginny, anymore, but he knew them. He trusted them. He cared about them, in different ways. They were family.

This man was an enemy, a danger, a threat, and Harry had limited means by which to protect himself. He had the Sword of Gryffindor. As a last, desperate measure, he had the _other_ magic. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, or to it, particularly as second year had informed Uncle Vernon that he would be expelled if any more magic were performed here at Privet Drive. What would he think if the letter of expulsion didn't come?

Still….

"I didn't answer the door," he managed to say. He was almost calm about it, too. "I merely opened the door to go out to do the gardening, and someone was on the other side. Your business associate, I presume."

He should have just made the assumption. If he'd been wrong, Uncle Vernon would have dismissed it as him being "mentally subnormal" as Aunt Marge had said two years ago. If he were right, and he rather suspected that it _was_ right, he would be showcasing that he'd paid attention to Uncle Vernon's debriefing (although he hadn't), which _might_ incline him to lenity.

Of course, he could always claim that at his "freak school", news concerning non-magical celebrities, or even images of them, were incredibly hard to come by. He needn't mention the special moving ink of wizarding newspapers.

"Well, it seems you've made a good impression on him, and he demanded to know where you were. He wouldn't take any excuses, so you have five minutes to make yourself at least halfway presentable before you come downstairs. And be quick about it. We can't keep him waiting."

Of course not. But, Harry was determined to milk this for all it was worth. If he'd truly "made an impression" on Tony Stark, that could be either good or bad for his coming plans. Either way, he was sure that after this night, he'd have to go back over them with new eyes. In the meantime….

Perhaps, he could get some revenge on the Dursleys, and blow off some steam, as well. He bore no malice towards Tony Stark, although he didn't think he remembered him being _quite_ that arrogant (but hadn't he compared _Malfoy_ to _Stark_, at their first meeting?).

Regardless of any other facts, Stark had displayed tremendous, almost _gryffindor_, amounts of courage, during the Chitauri Invasion—who else would have volunteered for that death mission that had wiped out Thanos's Chitauri army with a missile meant to obliterate New York? He didn't know how Stark would come around to having that sort of courage, but he knew that it lay in the future, particularly if he somehow managed to convince his friends not to intervene.

The Avengers were a necessary force for good in the world, an invaluable asset against _Thanos_, and—

He had no real "good" clothes—the Sunday best they'd bought at thriftstores back during their Christian phase had ceased to fit him, to the extent it ever had, years ago. His hair ranged from being "untidy" to "messier than a bird's nest", but it was currently leaning towards the former. Instead he used the time thinking hard, and hiding his battle plans, and his writing supplies.

He made sure to emerge from "his" room even before the five minutes were up, walking down the stairs slowly, to help muffle his noise, and listening hard for the dinner conversation. Mr. Stark was saying something about the Civil Rights Movement in America, and seemed a bit peeved with the Dursleys for some reason. If he could judge. Which, Stark being who he was, he doubted that he could.

Oh. He objected to the Dursleys calling Harry "boy". Something about someone called "Jim Crow"? Who was "Rhodey"? Or was that "roadie"?

Oh well. It probably wasn't _that_ important. He closed his eyes, bracing himself, for a few seconds, before walking into the dining room with a sort of silent grace that he pretty much shared only with Dumbledore and Riddle.

(Happy thoughts, right?)


	107. Dinner with the WHOLE Family

**Chapter One Hundred Seven: Dinner with the **_**Whole**_** Family**

Tony Stark knew things. If you're expecting an exhaustive list of what, or even a boring one of a few technical things he is credited with having known back in the nineties, we apologise in advance. The important thing is that he knew that many people were two-faced, and that went double for anyone styling themselves as potential "business associates". And there was only one thing you could do to find out these people's true colours: violate the norms.

That was why he showed up on their front steps at ten o'clock in the morning the day before dinner was scheduled. Which, in turn, was the only reason that he made the acquaintance of their nephew, Harry Potter.

The first impressions that the Dursleys made were mixed. Their lawns were the greenest on the block, suggesting that they'd just completely ignored the watering restrictions he'd heard about on the news. The garden was well-kept, filled with flowers in full bloom, and bushes and flowering shrubs. It was pretty much your standard garden, different from the rest of those on the block by…well, pretty much just by how well-maintained it was. A shiny new automobile stood in the driveway, suggesting that the family were well-off, if the pristine condition of their cookie-cutter house weren't evidence enough. While not made of money, he could tell that the family was wealthy.

When he arrived, he expected the usual stunned few moments of silence (even being fairly new to the scene, himself, he'd had to deal with his father's renown all his life, and both of their reputations tended to precede him), followed by much bland obsequiousness, as he was ushered in, with the greatest deference imaginable, as if he were royalty, or something.

When the boy who answered the door denied him entry, he at first thought that he somehow _had not been_ identified. But, without having to introduce himself, the boy nevertheless addressed him by name. Besides, what trendy fifteen-year-old _hadn't_ heard of someone so hip?

Then again, what trendy fifteen-year-old wore clothes that hung off them in rolls, with a neckline that only clever use of pins kept from falling right down his torso and off? Or long, messy black hair tied back in a ponytail? (Long hair was out of fashion. It was. Even if he _did_ know a few people who had it.)

The boy's appearance, in and of itself, was a bit of a surprise, but not as much as his complete dismissal of one of the most powerful individuals in the world. Not to mention the way he'd shut the door in Stark's face. Just who did this kid think he was?

But, it was more interesting than anything he'd had any hopes of encountering during his stay in Britain. He was always careful to be out of the country for the months of June and July, where between parades and commercials, you couldn't escape the sudden ubiquity of Captain America. They hired actors to play him in commercials advertising this or that product, especially Fourth of July sales. It wasn't that he _hated_ Captain America, exactly…although he did perhaps resent him, just a little, for being his father's favourite person. That was supposed to be _he_.

So, avoidance. Best attempted by venturing to a different hemisphere (ideally the Eastern Hemisphere, but merely the Southern would do, in a pinch), and staying there the entire time. These were his months for traveling the world, trying new things, and bringing poor old Obie to tears with his recklessness.

It was not a break that was supposed to be devoted to mysteries, but he could always take a change of pace. He was flexible. Just who _was_ that kid, anyway?

Yes, he had an ego. But, his pride was not a thing easily damaged. He'd pushed the kid's buttons, to see what he could get away with, and was kind of impressed by the way that the kid had pushed back.

Literally.

He fumed for a few minutes, but he'd gotten over it by the time he'd reached his hotel room. He'd already discovered one of the Dursleys best-kept secrets—not that he'd learn that until the next day.

-l-

The next day was filled with tedium, the dinner being the closest thing he had to something to look forward to. Despite the events of the day before, he arrived a few minutes early. A few minutes was not the same thing as "over a day". The housewife seemed a bit flustered at his early arrival, but she welcomed him in, anyway, with as much bowing and scraping as you could possibly wish for. The husband was worse, heartily attempting to pretend that the two of them were friends, even though they'd just met. Couldn't that firm, Grunnings, have sent him to someone else? But, apparently, this man was the one they'd trusted to sell people on their ideas.

And he had a son, who did a very poor job of buttering him up (he received such compliments all the time; he was a man of wealth and power, after all). He seemed to have a genuine respect and interest in the weapons…which…was a bit disturbing. The boy was, what, fifteen?

Conspicuous in his absence was the boy from yesterday. He couldn't have gained three hundred pounds overnight, which defeated any silly argument that the boy had just dyed his hair and was actually the kid (if about the right age, at least) currently kissing up to him at the dinner table. Petunia had cooked some sort of culinary masterpiece involving stuffed roast chicken, so there was plenty of food to go around, and it was about dinnertime, of course. There were even five chairs associated with the table, one of which stood empty. It lay at the far end, away from all of the others.

Now, of course, it _was_ possible that the boy had only been a visitor, himself, but…a visitor who had the authority to shut him out of the house? A visitor who knew about this meeting beforehand, enough to correct Stark's "mistake"? No. Something more was going on here. If the business world was cutthroat, it was only because the real world was just the same. A polite and friendly façade concealed sinister motivations (or at least, the intent to take advantage). He could make associations with people, alliances, but he didn't trust the people in the business world. More plausible than a random visitation by some intruder was the idea that the boy who had shut him out was a permanent resident of the household, which raised the question: where was he?

That kid's location became something of an assessment of this family, itself. Dudley's clothes were expensive, although not custom-tailored (and it was hard to find clothes for…a boy of his _girth_, anyway). Dudley's parents were equally well-dressed. Either they'd put their life savings into this deal, and they usually wore hand-me-downs like that boy, or….

Hmm. Hand-me-downs. Dudley-sized ones.

The first true red flag was when he'd broached the topic to them, with his usual deliberate casual carelessness.

"What about your other son?" he asked. All activity in the dining room ceased, complete with Vernon's progress carving the chicken. Oh, _come on_.

"Dudley is our only son," Petunia said, at last. "He's my pride and joy, smart, and handsome, and popular. I'm sure he'll grow up to—"

"Your nephew, then. Or cousin—the one with the black hair," he said, looking down at his phone, but glancing up when none of them responded, as if they'd been frozen, snapshots trapped in time.

Vernon Dursley went a fascinating shade of violet at this, all the colour draining from his face before flooding with a livid lilac.

"I'm afraid you must have been mistaken, sir," he said, at last, with a very tight smile that was more of a grimace. "We live here quite by ourselves."

Petunia nodded vigorously. Dudley had pulled out a Gameboy, and was glancing furtively between the screen and his parents.

They just had to make themselves more suspicious by the minute, didn't they? At this point, he was almost inclined to suspect that they'd murdered the boy he'd met yesterday, and were now trying to hide it. Just how long did it take for the smell of decay to fill the air in weather this humid? Well, he'd look it up later. Maybe call the cops, or at least Child Protective Services—they _did_ have those in Britain, right?

"Really? Whom do you suggest I met yesterday, then? I'd be very worried if I were you, about a burglar knowing so many of the personal details of your life. He did mention our meeting today, and—"

"That boy—" growled Vernon, in a grating rumble.

"May I ask why you were here a day early, Mr. Stark?" asked Petunia, trying to play peacemaker—or to silence her husband.

"Mistook the day. I'm sure you know the feeling. Such an important business deal, and all." His eyes narrowed when even this quasi-flattery didn't lift their spirits. And Vernon had accidentally betrayed that he had at least a sneaking suspicion as to whom it was that he had met yesterday.

"So, you _do_ know whom I'm talking about, then?" he said, with the sort of casual levity that let him take over a conversation by steamrolling over anyone who would otherwise have been able to interrupt. "I'd like to thank him for setting me straight. He lives here, right? Would you mind bringing him out here? Come to think of it, why isn't he here already? I mean, he is a member of your family, right? Don't normal families have dinner together?

Vernon might have been grinding his teeth. His expression was doubtless far less pleasant than he'd ever intended for it to be this evening. Stark knew the usual song and dance, and this wasn't it. He loved shaking things up. Internally, he applauded himself. This was giving him so much insight into these people.

"Just our nephew…disturbed, doesn't like visitors very much."

"He was perfectly polite to me," said Tony, in false tones of surprise. Although, it was sort of true. He _had_ started off polite. And he'd had none of the cloying obsequiousness currently permeating this room. Compared to that, a bit of rudeness would be a breath of fresh air.

"Is there something wrong with your food, Mr. Stark? Do you need the salt, perhaps?" asked Mrs. Dursley.

"I'd like to speak with your nephew," he insisted, and the Dursleys exchanged a look.

"He doesn't handle strangers very well," Petunia insisted. "He has his good days, and his bad days, but-"

"Well, then let's hope today's a good day," Stark interrupted.

"Just _how_ did you meet that boy?" Vernon snapped, and then blinked, as if surprised at the vitriol in his own voice. "I'm sorry—he's a juvenile delinquent, truth be told. Spends his school years at St. Brutus's Secure Centre. He'd probably rob you or worse…we didn't want him to bother you."

"I can take care of myself," Stark insisted, which wasn't true. He should probably enrol in martial arts classes, or something.

He noted to himself that, despite how swift Vernon was to introduce his wife and son by name, he'd yet to learn that black-haired kid's. Maybe it was because they were ashamed of his delinquency, or maybe….

At last, Vernon Dursley seemed to realise that Stark was not about to back down. He pushed himself back from the table, and walked out of the room. He returned a couple of minutes later, looking very magenta and purple, as if perhaps exercise—or his nephew—didn't agree with him.

"The f—the boy will be joining us for dinner," he said to Petunia. "You'd better add another plate."

Petunia pursed her lips as if this were some great inconvenience, but she gave a stiff nod, and moved away into the kitchen.

"You know," Tony Stark said, leaning back in his chair, and absorbing the show in a sort of morbid fascination, "where I come from, it's usually considered rude not to call people by their names. The use of the word 'boy' in particular tends to ruffle a lot of people's feathers. 'Jim Crow laws', and the antebellum South, and all. Used to use it to say that black people were like children next to us intelligent self-sufficient white people. Rhodey is black, so I'm a bit more aware of these things than your average Joe. I know things are different on this side of the pond, so just a friendly tip."

He gave them a cursory glance, staring at the screen of his cellphone. When he was feeling particularly bored (e.g.: right now) he'd sometimes spend some time working on his theories for an advanced form of A.I., the likes of which the world had yet to see. Call it a pet project, although it potentially had its business uses, too.

"My mistake, Mr. Stark. He is sometimes…difficult to handle, and it can be frustrating, trying to be a decent parent while still remaining firmly committed to our values, and his delinquency—"

Stark nodded, pretending to understand where they were coming from. It sounded as if they were ashamed of their nephew. Which they had every right to be, but were they too ashamed to see that he also needed some sort of moral guidance in his life? Or maybe Stark was projecting. If only his dad had—

"Am I interrupting something? No? Sorry to keep everyone waiting. I was enjoying a moment's freedom. Although I must say, it _is_ nice to be able to eat dinner with the rest of the family like normal people."

Stark gave a sort of half-turn, as if apathetic, as if he hadn't fought the Dursleys for five minutes to have this meeting arranged, and glanced at the figure who had just stepped through the doorway. He _did_ have long hair; it looked even longer when it wasn't tied back, and it contributed to a sort of delinquent appearance. Especially when added to the shoes that were practically in tatters, and the hand-me-downs that might as well have been made out of holes. He might have been homeless, for all the care he seemed to take with his appearance. After his absurd scruffiness, the thing that caught your attention was either his impossibly green eyes, or the giant lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.

"I got it the night my parents died, and I was sent to live here," the kid (whose name he still didn't know) said, without having to be asked.

They had something in common, which was more than could be said of him and the Dursleys. They even both had black hair, although the boy's was much messier. It was the sort of hair that you gave up on trying to tame, because hair products just seemed to slide right through it and off.

The kid held out a hand for him to shake. "Sorry about yesterday," he said, staring down at his museum-exhibit shoes. Did _Guinness_ have a record for oldest pair of shoes still being worn? He thought those shoes would probably qualify.  
The boy looked up, quite abruptly, and there was something almost feral about his expression, which made Tony rethink the virtues of inviting this kid to dinner. Perhaps he _was_ a dangerous criminal.

But that moment of alarm passed, as the kid smirked, and Tony Stark shook his hand, in a bit of a daze at his own reaction, that moment of _fear_, and was barely aware of the handshake, or the kid's introduction, a simple, "Harry Potter. It's a pleasure."

The only acceptable way to react after being caught freezing up was to laugh it off as if it hadn't happened, and babble at a rapid-fire rate to call attention away from your mistake.

"Oh, hey, nice to meet you, kid. I'm Tony Stark, although I suppose you already knew that, since you used my name yesterday. The perils of being famous, and all, can't go anywhere without being recognised." He was dimly aware of the kid nodding sympathetically, as if he knew exactly what Stark was talking about, which was _impossible_, as he hadn't known the kid's name before he'd introduced himself. "Don't worry about yesterday. No hard feelings. Water under the bridge. Probably shouldn't have tried to get past you, but this house just looked so warm and welcoming."

"You _needed_ to warm up? You are aware that we're in the middle of a heatwave, right?"

Just as he'd thought: breath of fresh air.

"So, you're a fellow orphan, eh? Mind if I ask what happened?"

Most people would be appalled at this question, and the kid's fists clenched under the table as if trying to seem cool and poised. He'd have succeeded, too, if Tony hadn't known to look for that sort of thing. Body language speaks as loud as words, and all.

"Car crash," said Vernon, in a grunt that seemed to be the best he could muster.

"They did _not_ die in a car crash," said Harry Potter, emphatic. "They were murdered by a terrorist. One of their best friends betrayed their whereabouts to him. My dad died shielding my mum, and she died protecting me. The cavalry arrived just barely too late."

"You're an awful, no-good liar, boy, who—"

"'No good'? Really? I must take offence to that. I'm the best liar in this whole town, thank you very much."

Stark snorted at the boy's deliberate misinterpretation of their words. He could like this kid, after all. They'd just gotten off on the wrong foot. Not everyone had as fine of a grasp or appreciation of sarcasm as he did. Harry caught his reaction, and gave a small smirk in response, and nodded, as if sharing a secret.

"Are you enjoying your stay, Mr. Stark? Seeing the sights? Have you been to London? Of course, I suppose it's more difficult for you…can't go anywhere without an armed escort, or being mobbed, right?"

He shook his head with excessive melodrama. "What's the world coming to? Well, don't be a stranger. Let me know if I can get you anything."

Perhaps it was recent comments, but Stark doubted the sincerity of Harry Potter's offer.

* * *

Harry generally pushed his luck as far as he could, knowing that the Dursleys wouldn't dare to do anything to him with Stark right there. He was a living shield, except for not bearing the brunt of their anger. He'd pay for it when the business associate left, but for now, he might as well have some fun. He found himself regretting even more that their first acquaintance had had to be one of enmity. Of course, it wasn't _now_, except for how it sort of would be….

Why did life have to be so confusing?

He and Stark traded barbs of varying subtlety throughout that entire meal. Most of the barbs were directed towards the Dursleys, who were trying, and failing, to maintain their dignity and respectability. He was sure that they'd told Stark the lie about him attending St. Brutus's—it was in the early suspicion and mistrust that Stark had displayed, but even a criminal could be a decent person, someone worth knowing, and perhaps Stark was even doubting the reality of his purported school by the end. Maybe he didn't need Ron or Sirius's help, after all. Who knew what Ron might have let slip? And Sirius was doing things for the Order.

Complaining about the Dursleys was good for relieving the built=up stress, too.

He didn't realise that they _were_ building up any rapport until after the dinner had ended, and Stark, with a glance around the room to silence any objections in advance, asked if he could speak to Harry alone.

"Well, that was fun," Harry commented, once he'd subtly ensured that there could be no eavesdroppers. You could only spend so long wondering if there were any wizarding spells against eavesdropping before you created your own, he figured. This was much less flashy than wizarding magic, _and_ he wouldn't get in trouble with the Ministry. Also, wizarding magic had the distressing tendency to cause electronics in particular to malfunction and die. He'd hate to be responsible for the murder of one of Stark's electronics. He was also genuinely in a better mood, after all of that. Nice, in a way, to be reminded that Riddle wasn't the greatest threat out there.

"You're an okay kid," Stark declared, as if he'd just decided it now. Harry looked down at his feet, again, suddenly self-conscious. _Stark_ was one of the _Avengers_. He had no right to stand in any of their presence, after what he'd done.

Or was that _before_ what he'd done? Or "before what he was going to do"? Gah. Why couldn't life be simple?

He affected not to be disturbed or distracted by these last trains of thought, but that still left him self-conscious and awkward. And guilt was not so easily assuaged.

"I'm really not," he said, quietly, glancing at the sofa upon which he'd once been forbidden to sit. Didn't want to get freakiness on it.

"Does social services need to get involved?" asked Stark, in a very serious voice, and Harry recoiled as if stricken, which thought threatened to lead his thoughts down other dangerous paths. "I'm willing to be a witness."

Harry looked up to meet his gaze. Stared. He waited for the smile to pull into a smirk, and realised, slowly, that he should probably say something.

"There's no need. I'm only here for two more years, anyway. Not even that."

Stark noted that he didn't say that there was nothing to call about.

"And then, what, you're emancipated?" he asked. He knew that he could use big words with this one. Harry just nodded.

"Two years to freedom," he said, with a hollow grin.

"You decided what you're going to do with your life? I can always use intelligent people who are willing to learn. And it's not every day I meet someone who appreciates sarcasm the way I do."

"I was thinking of joining the police," said Harry, with a shrug. He was thinking of becoming an auror, which was almost the same thing. In fact, he had his heart set on it. It was strange to admit it to anyone, however, especially someone who didn't know that he was himself part of the reason for Harry's choice of occupation.

"Ah. Do they take juvenile delinquents and convicted felons here in Britain?" asked Stark, with deliberate levity.

"Come now, Mr. Stark. We both know that that's a lie."

No comment. "Well, the offer stands. If you ever find yourself in The States—particularly wherever I happen to have my headquarters at the time, which'll probably be either L.A. or New York, feel free to drop on by. And, hmm. Alright. Let me ask your advice on something," he said.

Harry kept a respectful silence, and waited, head tilted to the side, hands in his pockets. It was a very Sirius pose.

"I'm asking your advice, here. Do you think that I should sign the deal with your uncle?"

He was leaning towards "no", already, but Harry knew this family better than he. Still, he felt that the Dursleys were more than a bit…shady.

Harry paused, leant back, thinking the matter over carefully, and….

"No," he said, with a shrug. "They're not desperately in need of funding, you know, and while they're on their best behaviour while you're here, they'll go back to their usual behaviour once you've gone. They don't need the extra money, but they'll use the prestige to get a leg up on the competition and cut them out. I wouldn't trust any contract written up by Vernon Dursley, anyway. One of these days his less than savoury behaviour will come to light. Don't let him take you for all you've got."

Stark digested this summary, and shrugged. "Well, I didn't like them much, anyway. Sort of a shame not to have the opportunity to get in a few more shots at your Uncle, though."

Harry paused, tilting his head the other way, and glanced up at Stark, as if thoroughly unimpressed by his childish behaviour. "Oh, don't worry. I promise: this is not the last you'll see of me."


	108. Pottery Shards

**Chapter One Hundred Eight: Pottery Shards**

Sirius was too busy to come himself, but he sent Harry a gift for his birthday, and a lovely greeting card in an envelope, which he'd licked shut with dog-slobber, and then had owl-delivered. Receiving gifts from his closest friends (family) made him think of Christmas. He should have confronted Ron last year. He'd known he should have, but with the egg, and the tournament, and Crouch sneaking into Hogwarts in the middle of the night…. He buried his face in his hands, thinking about it.

He never expected much from either day—his birthday, or Christmas. At least this year, he'd already received his dose of pretending he didn't exist and making no noise a few days ago. That was a start. It was, doubtless, something that most kids his age would not consider being grateful for, but he was trying to work on his gratitude. This year, his birthday was devoid of excitement. He could wish that Sirius and Ron could have been here all he wanted but that would change nothing.

The excitement this year came _after_ his birthday. And of course, it involved his already fragile soul being torn to figurative ribbons. That was worth sending out a red ring, to his mind. Not that the Weasleys didn't already know.

Truth be told, that entire day had been difficult for him, what with Uncle Vernon (who thankfully hadn't heard back from "Mr. Stark" yet) wroth at Harry's audacity of daring to talk to their prospective associate—and to speak ungrateful things about them, no less. And what was he doing, hiding in the hydrangea bushes like some sort of freak? What normal boy paid any attention to the news? Blah, blah, blah, more or less usual fare for the Dursleys.

When the heat died down somewhat, he went to the old playground Dudley had visited once or twice when they were kids, before deciding that playing was too strenuous of exercise. It was one of the few places in Privet Drive that had any ambient magic to it, as he had noticed years ago, back before it had fallen into such disrepair. Much of that magic had remained behind, almost as if as a physical impression upon the land. The magic here was so pure that he didn't dare to touch it, lest he have some sort of corruptive effect. That didn't mean that he couldn't appreciate that it was _there_, be reassured by its proximity.

He sat on the swings, thinking hard about recent events, as a brisker breeze began to pick up. What was Riddle up to? Well, he was being very indirect, and keeping to himself. Perhaps stretching out tendrils, testing the waters.

What were the Order doing? They were doing nothing but guarding the prophecy Riddle wished to hear in its entirety. That and the occasional knocking on doors to try to talk sense into a people who were happier believing that Harry was making it all up.

On the one hand, their lack of proactivity was infuriating. He did not like the sense that the Order was just sitting back and letting Riddle do as he pleased. But, he recognised that, with the Ministry in denial, there wasn't much that they could do, without being hauled away for causing trouble and treason, or whatever charge they'd put to it. And, their inaction made it easier to bear not being a part of the Order. He was inextricably tied up in affairs, but if nothing was happening anyway…he wasn't doing any less than anyone else.

What would _he_ do? First things first: why hadn't Riddle died for real, if he'd truly been hit by a rebounded Killing Curse? It was imperative that someone (probably Dumbledore) figure that out. He was willing to put his own research into the subject, too (and speaking of research, he had other pet projects he needed to think about, as well). At the same time, they needed to detain, or eliminate, as many Death Eaters as possible. Loki had given them any number of names, at the end of fourth year. Avery, Crabbe, Nott, Malfoy, Goyle, Macnair…. But Malfoy was doubtless running the Ministry via his wealth, and Macnair was still an executioner. All of the Death Eaters who hadn't been locked up or slain were still at large. And, he couldn't help recalling just how full the graveyard had seemed of them.

The graveyard. Sometimes, it reappeared in his nightmares. He hadn't had a good notion as to what to do; it had taken him too long to figure out how to get out of his bonds. Did that make it _his_ fault that Riddle had been resurrected?

Remus Lupin had gathered "the old crowd"—those who remained of those who had fought in the Order in the last war. Many had fallen, but those who remained flocked again to the old standard. Some new faces had joined as well, including Tonks, possibly because she'd been asked by Remus.

But, mostly, the Order of the Phoenix gathered members, tried to warn the populace of the reality of the coming war, and worked to keep Riddle and his men out of the Hall of Prophecies, in the Department of Mysteries, under the Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore had said that only Harry and Riddle could touch the prophecy, and that Riddle would doubtless eventually figure this out, and would set a trap…the Order was buying time, delaying this confrontation as long as they could. Personally, Harry thought that he should go with them to the Hall of Prophecies, if he were even needed for it, and break the prophecy. But, he acknowledged that, as long as Riddle was focused on that, he was too distracted to try a takeover.

This appeared to be Dumbledore's strategy.

Ron was useless writing in code, so his letters were inevitably full of admonishments that Harry be careful, and platitudes that he and Hermione didn't know that much, either, but they couldn't write very much. Harry wondered how Dumbledore would react knowing just how much Harry Potter knew of proceedings. He'd have to thank Sirius and Remus.

And speaking of Sirius…with few options remaining, and little understanding of what prolonged exposure to dementors did _exactly_, deaging was seeming the only plausible option. If he could figure out how to do it. The key was finding some way to either bring the mind up to speed with the body—accelerated aging, which was highly implausible as an option—or to reverse the body's aging to match the mind. If you thought of those two as connected….

And, of course, his last thoughts before he left to try to get home "at a reasonable hour" (i.e.: before Dudley) had to be of dementors, and their lasting effects. Which was, in turn, almost _asking_ for a dementor or two to appear.

He caught up to Dudley shortly before "Big D's" gang dispersed, each going his separate way homeward; in Dudley's case, going Harry's way. He eavesdropped on their conversation, and then doubled his usual stride until he caught up to Dudley.

"Hello, Big D. How's it going?" he asked. Dudley's jaw clenched. But, he gave little reaction besides. It took him a few moments to say,

"Don't call me that."

Harry waited for a moment to speak again.

"So, whom did you beat up tonight? I know you beat Mark Evans to a pulp a few nights ago."

"He was asking for it! He cheeked me!"

"And an insult is equivalent to blunt force, how?" asked Harry. "Not every situation is solved with violence, you know."

He seemed to need to have this conversation often, and with many different people.

"You weren't there, Potter. What do you know? Maybe if you weren't so weak, you'd know how to fight your own battles."

Harry bristled at this, but he took a deep breath, and let it pass.

"I am not weak, Dudley. Nor am I a coward." Huh. Apparently his voice went a bit deeper when he was angry, too, although he'd never manage to match Ron, whose voice tended to drop two octaves, anymore, when he was worked up about something. And, given that he tended to wear his heart on his sleeve….

"Yeah? You're not so brave at night, are you?"

Harry was genuinely puzzled by this.

"It _is_ night, Dudley," he said, tilting his head back. But, the sky was full of stars, and he had to look away. "That's what it's called when the sun goes away and it gets all dark, see."

"I've heard you talking in your sleep. 'Don't kill Cedric '—who's Cedric, your boyfriend?"

"You and Malfoy should meet up, if only to exchange notes so that you don't use the same insults. For all that it is any of your business, Cedric was a fellow student, who was almost murdered a couple of months ago by the same man who murdered my parents. But, such talk doubtless bores you, as it does Malfoy."

"Who's Malfoy?" Dudley asked, sounding genuinely curious. No one else was around, and the alley was deserted; Harry checked. He shrugged, as if indifferent to Malfoy's existence.

"The son of one of the servants of the man who killed my parents. Rich, entitled, needs his goons to hold people's arms behind their back while he hits them. Sound familiar?"

Dudley was shaking all over. Perhaps, he was smarter than Harry'd given him credit for, for he seemed to take the hint. "I've changed, Potter. I took up boxing at Smeltings, got in shape. I'm a heavyweight champion. I can fight my own battles. I don't need anyone to help me."

Harry scrutinised him, up and down. Nothing he said rang false, and Dudley had never been a good liar. He gave another indifferent shrug. A seeker of redemption should not be stingy with offering forgiveness to others.

"Okay, I'll give you a shot," he said, glancing around the alley again. He caught a glimpse of Dudley's stupefaction as he looked around the alley again. He didn't know why he was suddenly so on edge. His sixth sense was trying to get his attention, but that didn't tell him much in and of itself.

A glance at the sky, for want of a better place to look, showed that the stars were beginning to go out, one by one. A sudden chill permeated the air. He was aware of it only as a contrast to the extreme summer heat of before.

"What—what are you doing?" Dudley demanded. He was shaking.

Harry drew the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, and held a finger to his lips. "Not now, Dudley. I'm not doing anything—yet. This is bad."

"What—what is—?"

"I know of only one thing that can seem to extinguish the stars," Harry said, gravely. "_Servo stellas_!"

Dementors. Two of them. Muggles couldn't see them, but they could feel the effects.

"Whatever you do, _keep your mouth shut_, Dudley. You can't see the monsters, but they're there. I'll let you know when the coast is clear. _Exspecto patronum_!"

Whenever possible, head the attack off before it could begin. Delay too long, and you gave them a way into your mind. He didn't even want to _think_ about what effect they'd have there, now….

But, against _two_….

He'd practised, extensively, in third year, and his magical reserves were much deeper than they had been then, thanks to both Stephen and Thor. But, the more dementors there were, the harder it was to fight them off. There were only two of them, but it was twice hard—to keep his focus, to keep an eye on them, and all while protecting Dudley, who, for all his faults, hardly deserved an execution. Sirius himself had written that it was only a matter of time before the dementors abandoned their posts, joining back up with Riddle. The Ministry would make an alliance with those _monsters_, but not werewolves or giants, hmm?

The first of the dementors fled into the night, pursued by Harry's patronus, but the second one closed in, heading for Dudley. He redirected Prongs to face that threat, but suspected he wouldn't make it in time.

And, of course, the cold was setting in. Particularly with the retreat of the patronus before the dementor had been driven completely off, meaning that he was now dealing with two dementors again. It was the only sort of cold he had any real awareness of, making it easy to identify even without the knowledge that tonight was, in truth, a warm summer night.

Oh, and, of course, it was also pressing him down deep into himself, burying him in bad memories, sucking him down in the manner of quicksand, except that not struggling wouldn't do any good. Already, he could hear the screams beginning. He could recognise words.

_Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry._

He knew that scene. He shook himself. Only a few months ago, he'd dragged her into the physical world. He knew her protection clung to him, in the most flexible shield there was. It flowed in his blood. He'd spoken to her only a couple of nights ago. He knew that she would not want him to yield.

He straightened his back, rose to his knees. Managed, with great effort, to turn his gaze to Dudley, whom a dementor was lifting up with one hand even as it lowered its hood. He wished that he knew how to form those daggers of ice, or even what sort of barrier had kept him from recreating them, second year. Of course, he hadn't even tried, last year. Perhaps, the barrier had been born of his own denial.

His wand was charged with the Star Preserver Spell, and time seemed to have slowed down, the way it will in a moment of crisis, to give him time to think. Try to recreate a weapon, when he wasn't sure he could, and risk revealing the other magic to Dudley? What other choice was there? Hope that his patronus reached them in time?

There were other attacks, other ways of using the _other_ magic, other unpractised spells that he knew that he could reach for, but, as he had noticed in the graveyard, he tended to reach for Wizarding Magic first, second, and third.

He sent a wave of ice out from around himself, as he had in…second year? It pierced through the hooded creature, the impact driving it backwards, forcing it to drop Dudley, who barely seemed to have any awareness at all of what was going on. The patronus arrived scant seconds later, standing protectively over his cousin. Harry swayed on his feet for half a second, and his patronus fizzled out—the _other_ magic always took quite a bit more out of him, but he'd practised relentlessly last year, and his reserves were, by now, quite deep. He'd continued his practice even over the summer holidays, after all.

Rather than rushing to see that Dudley was alright, he kept his mind focused upon the battle at hand. If Dudley had lost his soul, there was nothing he could do; if he hadn't, it was his responsibility to ensure that that remain the case.

And, of course, it was growing hard to think again, now that the dementor had been robbed of its prey, and was focused upon him once more. The screams began again, dragging him into himself. But, he remembered the conclusion he'd come to in third year, that if the Patronus Charm used positive emotions, the only one that might work for him was _love_. The Sorting Hat, after all, had told him that love was his guiding force.

He thought of his mother, how warmly she greeted him whenever he visited her cottage in the woods, and, before that, the faint memory of her, always there, always a pillar of strength, the one person he'd once been absolutely certain loved _him_. And he thought of others, too. He remembered his dad, standing in the graveyard, choosing his son over his childhood friend. He thought of Sirius and Remus, waiting at Grimmauld Place, who defied orders to keep him in the know. He thought of Ginny, with her bright red hair. He thought of clever Hermione, and Ron, the best older brother anyone could ever hope for. He had to make it, long enough to come back to Grimmauld Place, long enough to see them again.

"_Exspecto Patronum_!" he cried, and a blinding, dazzling white light burst forth from the wand. Another patronus, brighter by far than the last, infused, he knew, with his mother's love. It was indestructible, indefatigable, the ultimate defence. The dementors seemed to notice its very arrival, and take heed, drawing away from Dudley. Harry sent Prongs over the stronger of the two dementors, the one with the more energy, the one that had tried to steal Dudley's soul. It fled, with an eerie shriek, and he watched it disappear into the distance. In that brief span of time, he was defenceless against the other dementor, but it hesitated to approach. Perhaps, something of Mother's energy lingered around him, shielded him even now. But somehow, he didn't think that was why it hesitated. Surely, in that case, it would simply have gone after Dudley?

The patronus-stag returned to Harry's side, blazing with the speed of a shooting star, and he sent it straightaway after the first dementor, the one that almost been driven off successfully, before. After a perfunctory scuffle in which it tried to bypass the patronus, this dementor, too, retreated. Curious.

Harry couldn't make heads or tails of it. He watched the skies for a few seconds, but the return of light and warmth to the world stood as evidence enough of the dementors' flight. Despite this fact, he waited still for a few moments before gradually relaxing, and turning to Dudley.

Dudley was breathing, but that signified nothing. He recalled all too well what Professor Lupin had said about the body outliving the soul, the original zombies. He was, mercifully, not far distant from Dudley, and in a single stride, he knelt down, studying Dudley, lying there, twitching.

"I think we'd best get you home to examine you better."

And then there came a shout. "Boy! You, boy! Yes, I'm talking to you! Wait up!"

He turned around, and stared. It was Mrs. Figg, the woman with far too many cats, in whose care he'd often been left by the Dursleys, when they wished to do something fun (which in turn required what passed for fast thinking on their part, to discover a way to leave him behind). He swiftly made to hide the highly conspicuous wand, ideally by shoving it away, as Dudley would else wonder where it had gone (assuming he'd retained his soul). But Mrs. Figg, to his greater shock, said,

"Don't put it away, you fool! What if there are more around? I'm going to kill that fool, Mundungus Fletcher."

He blinked rapidly at her, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. Who was "Mundungus Fletcher"? Mrs. Figg knew about magic? Since when? But there weren't any other dementors about…their presence was very obvious.

"Er…who?" he stammered, with none of his usual poise. His eyes were very wide.

"That thief, Mundungus Fletcher!" she cried again. "I told him not to go, but he had to go buy a batch of illegal cauldrons! And now see what's happened! Dementors! Good thing Mr. Tibbles was watching you."

He remembered the cat streaking out from under the car, seemingly at the sudden noise. Smart.

"Then…he was the one who disapparated from in front of the house!" He _knew_ it hadn't been a backfiring engine!

Mrs. Figg was quite different from usual, and inclined to be rather short with him. "Of course he was following you! What, did you think Dumbledore would leave you alone after what happened last June? Good Lord, boy! They told me you were _smart_!"

He didn't know what part of her outburst he took the greatest offence to.

"You—you know Dumbledore?" he asked, in something of a daze. It was all too much, everything happened stacked on top of each other thus. She scoffed, and rolled her eyes.

"Of course I know Dumbledore!" she cried. "Everyone knows Dumbledore!"

He reached down, bracing himself to lift Dudley's girth. If this conveniently put his face in shadow so that she would have a harder time of reading his expression, so much the better.

"I had never heard of Dumbledore until my eleventh birthday. Hagrid was quite upset. But, you know the Dursleys. Do you see them telling me of _magic_?"

A slight, mocking hint to his tone. He glanced askance at her, and saw her gaze soften somewhat.

"Ah. Sorry about that. I would have loved to spoil you rotten, but if the Dursleys thought that you enjoyed yourself, they would never have brought you back."

This was incontrovertibly true. He said nothing, pulling Dudley to his feet, instead. Dudley, pale and shaking though he was, eyes wide and wild, nevertheless seemed…well, there was a sense, a suspicion, that his soul was still intact.

Or as intact as it could be after an encounter with dementors.

_Crack_! A most untidy sort of individual appeared, unassuming-looking, with flabby folds of skin under his eyes, as if his face were trying to drip off his skull. He looked like a bad caricature of a chimney sweep, or some such, that he'd seen in a movie (he thought) once. All loose, baggy clothing, filthy as he was. A Cockney accent completed the stereotype.

He'd seen it somewhere. He knew he had.

Actually, Mundungus Fletcher seemed somewhat familiar even outside of caricature. As if he'd met him, somewhere, before. Even the name sounded familiar...

"Are you—?" he tried to ask, but the grown-ups were having a conversation, thank you.

"You miserable, sneaking thief! What did you think you were doing?" she asked, hitting him with a purse filled with cans of cat food. Harry took a step back at the sudden act of violence, staring at the activity askance.

"Ah, well, I had to, Figgy. Very good business opportunity, you see—"

"And what about your watch?" she shrieked. "Do you know what happened while you were gone?"

"Eh?" the black market dealer had time to ask.

"Dementors, you miserable lout! Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!"

"What—dementors? Here in Little Whinging?" he asked, which, to be fair, was a puzzle even to Harry.

"Someone—had—better—go—tell—Dumbledore!" cried Mrs. Figg, punctuating her point with violent swings of that bag. Harry looked away, and tried to pretend he were anywhere else.

Fletcher took the hint, disapparating straightaway, which was a shame. But, Harry'd been forced to break the International Statue of Secrecy. Maybe. He supposed it didn't count if he was acting to save his cousin's soul from dementors, his cousin, who knew of magic regardless. But, if he used any more magic, it _would_ count. He couldn't carry Dudley and wield the wand at the same time. He put it back in his pocket, relying on the tension of his belt to keep it in place. He'd rather be wearing Hogwarts robes.

"What are you doing, boy?" Mrs. Figg demanded.

He glanced over at her, dismissive.

"I assume that you can't use magic," he said. "And you are, therefore, of little use as escort. Perhaps, you ought to have returned home to inform Dumbledore of goings-on, and left Fletcher as my guard. As it is, your presence makes no difference, and I can find my own way home."

His thoughts and emotions had suddenly whirred back to life. He didn't know what he thought or felt about recent events, not yet. He needed time to think and to process.

He set off for home, leaving a rather stunned Mrs. Figg behind.


	109. Return to Grimmauld Place

**Chapter One Hundred Nine: Return to Grimmauld Place**

The confrontation with the Dursleys had been, to an extent, a familiar phenomenon, reminding him both of previous such encounters, as well as all of his failed attempts to justify his actions—to McGonagall, to Snape, to his father, to anyone who, whether with good cause or not, refused to believe his side of the story, and even if they did, gave him no quarter on its account. No lenity for extenuating circumstances!

That Dudley had pointed him out as the culprit—after all he'd done to save him—was galling but not unforeseeable. Sirius had taken the time to write him a brief note telling him to stay where he was. The Ministry of Magic had made matters worse, as only they could. The Dursleys had compounded his misery by taking the expulsion notice as proof of culpability.

Basically, everything ran as he should have expected. Being punished for saving his cousin's life pushed him over a certain boundary line. If he were to be expelled regardless of the fact that he had done no wrong, well, he would use no wizarding magic (his wand would prove that the only spell he'd cast had been the Patronus Charm, and he intended to keep it that way). But, he wouldn't hesitate to send Hedwig off with the red ring. Its time had come. This way, Ron would know. And since his brother was a force of nature in pretty much the most literal sense imaginable….

Harry allowed himself a small smile, even in the darkness of his room that he sensed was about to become his prison once more.

It was a bit amusing to know that the crazy cat lady with whom he'd spent so many unpleasant days was also a member of the Order. That didn't change the fact that she'd essentially thrown him under the metaphorical bus.

Dumbledore had ordered radio silence. Between these two facts, Harry's natural suspicion and mistrust were waxing. What were the old man's intentions? Even Sirius and Remus didn't know _that_. Was there a reason that, after the events of the Third Task, he was being kept isolated, removed from the Wizarding World? If Riddle had gained access to him even at Hogwarts, and if Mother's blood had been invoked in the ritual (albeit in a dormant state) didn't that suggest that he'd lost whatever protection was provided by his residence, here?

But, she _had_ been there, the night of his birthday. Perhaps, he was being unjust (the Hat had never considered Hufflepuff a valid possibility, after all). Perhaps, there were something that Dumbledore knew, that he didn't. Why not share it, then, in the weeks before he was sentenced back to Number Four?

And, he _was_ thinking of it as a sentence. Life at Number Four was essentially incarceration, as they seemed determined to treat him as a dangerous criminal mastermind, instead of a child. Despite not being in the know. It would horrify them if he accused them of being psychic, of knowing what would occur twenty years hence. As time wore on, this made the idea of voicing such an accusation ever more appealing. He must be a masochist. He knew how they'd punish him for such a suggestion.

Trapped in such an environment, even with his door unlocked (not that it mattered much, as he could always have picked the lock), it was difficult not to spend his free time in pacing. It mattered little to him that Dudley had made a full recovery, except that their need to dote upon their poor, long-suffering son ensured that all three Dursleys didn't bother him; they stayed as far away from him as they could, as if terrified that _he_ might steal their souls if given the opportunity.

He managed to force himself to spend most of his time studying and planning in his room, except for when he left for unimportant things, like food. He wanted the house empty, and to himself, for no other reason than that it would feel less of a prison, that way. And, maybe, he could even practise some of the _other_ magic—nothing _flashy_, per se, but….

He got his wish three days later, when Uncle Vernon interrupted his thoughts by throwing open the door to announce that the three of them (Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley) were going to attend the awards ceremony for a community upstanding citizens award show. Apparently, they'd won the "Best Kept Lawn" Award. This despite the drought, and despite the fact that Harry had spent most of his time indoors. Their garden paled in comparison to Mother's, and lacked any sort of spontaneity or creativity. Very artificial. However, they shut up and stopped whining about both dementors and Tony Stark, so he figured he'd just appreciate what he could get.

Although, he couldn't blame her for being ashamed and horrified to be reminded of Professor Snape, who, given the infrequency of Aunt Petunia's interactions with her sister after Lily left for Hogwarts, had to be "that awful boy" who had told Mum about Azkaban. He would else have assumed that it was his father, but he was fairly sure that Aunt Petunia'd never even gone to the wedding. Even if they'd met, she wouldn't have listened to him talk about magic—she'd have shrieked that it was unnatural and wrong and fled. But, despite figuring this out, he refused to commiserate with her about Snape.

It had taken him only a few minutes to realise that he'd never figure out who had sent "the last" letter to Aunt Petunia. Given how horrible that voice had sounded, though, and that it was a wizard, it had to be someone powerful enough to be genuinely terrifying, and know about Aunt Petunia. Those two criteria narrowed the individual's potential identity down sufficiently for him. Maybe he could have figured it out, maybe not. It didn't matter to him.

He had made his work visible again, and was indulging in some pensive quill-tapping, when a noise downstairs made him pause in his tracks, immediately setting the paper aside, drawing his wand and moving in complete silence to the open door, and then to the top of the stairs. The house was completely dark; the Dursleys would never trouble themselves to waste money on him, and he knew better than to fight it. Even though he hadn't lived there in over four years, they still hadn't troubled themselves to change the lightbulb in the cupboard under the stairs.

This universal darkness was both helpful and harmful in such a case as this one. His eyes needed no further opportunity to adjust, but the entirety of the downstairs was covered in a blanket of darkness. It took even him a bit of time to understand what he was seeing, and in the meantime, he pointed the wand down at a steep angle, waiting for any attack.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourselves!"

"Good to see you have your wits about you, boy. Never know who or what you're dealing with. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" cried a voice that was more familiar than it should have been. It _sounded_ that of Alastor Moody. But, given that he only recognised the voice because an _impostor_ had used it all last year….

He hesitated. "Do you claim to be the real Professor Moody, then?" he asked, in a voice filled with a sort of bored curiosity.

"This is a rescue mission," said an equally bored voice, in a slow drawl. No curiosity, just a sort of deliberate apathy. Harry knew that voice too well not to recognise it. This was seeming realer by the minute.

"Sirius?" he whispered. His voice shook nevertheless. "Is—is that you?"

"We've come to take you away, Harry," said the hoarse, quiet voice of Remus Lupin.

"Why are we all standing around here in the dark?" demanded a woman's voice. One he also knew well. Tonks. "_Lumos_!"

He considered reminding her that the Dursleys' house had working electricity, and then dismissed it. The Dursleys would not be pleased if he welcomed these strange, wizarding freaks into their home. Which made it very tempting.

He recognised only those four: Professor Moody, Remus, Sirius, and Tonks. The rest were strangers to him, and they were quite a few.

"A surprising number of people volunteered to come on this mission," Remus said, with a smile that somewhat softened the premature age lines creasing his face. It was a kindly smile, but there was also a sort of secret understanding to the quirk of the lips. He and Sirius were the only ones who would have understood it among their group, which he couldn't help noticing didn't include Ron.

He descended the stairs, wand trained somewhere near the middle, where a single attack would do the most damage. He opened his sixth sense, eyes narrowed, as his gaze ranged the group. He had the _sense_ that none of them were impostors, although _that_ was hardly infallible.

"Where are you bringing me, then?" he asked, as he descended the stairs.

"Headquarters," Remus said, prompt as ever. He shot Harry a significant look. _Put two and two together_, it seemed to say. If they were genuine, then he was speaking of Grimmauld Place.

"Just a minute. We have to be sure he is who he says he is. You can't go talking about Headquarters to—"

"Harry, what form does your patronus take?" asked Remus. Harry paused.

"Plenty of people know that, surely," he said. "I did use it against Malfoy, that one time."

"That one was less than corporeal," Remus said. "Perhaps, because it didn't need to be any more than it was."

Harry gave them an unimpressed stare, still three steps from the bottom of the stairs, to give himself more room…and height. Being short made things rather difficult.

"A stag," he said, opening his seventh sense a crack, and glancing at Remus for signs of his own, personal magic, which would have lingered, if ever he'd bound them into a promise. He didn't want to waste any test questions.

He relaxed when he found it, before turning to Moody. "You're suspicious if anyone is. You asked me to prove my identity, and I did. Now, prove yours."

"Smart kid," agreed Moody, with a chuckle, that Harry didn't recall ever having heard before. "You considering becoming an auror, kid?"

Harry nodded. "My past four years at Hogwarts should more than qualify me for the job. Tonks, don't touch that, you'll knock it off," he said, without turning to face her. She scowled, and withdrew her hand from reaching to examine the tea kettle Aunt Petunia had left atop a doily on the stove.

"You'd make a good auror, from all I've heard," agreed Moody, and Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Flattery won't help you," he said. "I asked you for proof."

Sirius and Remus said nothing, even though they both knew that Harry already knew that they were the real Sirius and Remus (and could extrapolate from that that their fellows were also the real things).

"I have proven myself to Tonks," he said. "You don't know me well enough for a passphrase, boy."

Harry rounded on Tonks. "Are you willing to vouch for him, Tonks?" he asked.

She shoved her hands in her pockets, and gave a sheepish little nod. She didn't dare to touch anything whilst he was watching.

"Who gave me the idea for what might make a dementor less threatening, and what was that idea?"

Tonks grinned at the memory. "Death in a dress," she said, with a cheeky, cheerful wave that nearly knocked the teapot off again. He scowled at her. "And, it was…I dunno, one of your yearmates, you said. That black boy. Thomas?"

"Well enough," he said, descending the rest of the steps. "The rest of you had better not be fakes," he said, glaring around the room. "Rescue missions rarely require this many people. Keep that in mind, next time. The more of you unknowns there are, the easier it is to slip in an impostor."

"Good Lord, he's more paranoid than Moody," someone said, under their breath.

Moody glared around the unnamed crowed, but couldn't pinpoint the accuser. He gave Harry a nod of approval.

"Good thinking, boy, but these have all been vetted by Dumbledore. Hard to get anything past him."

Harry raised his eyebrows. He was less than inclined to be forgiving towards the headmaster who had left him in the dark all this summer. "…Except for Professors with You-Know-Who attached to the back of their head under the turban, a man impersonating _you_, one of his closest friends, a mythic beast, an unregistered animagus or four—"

"Dumbledore is only human. He makes mistakes, but if you're looking for a foolproof means of defence…well, let _me_ know if you ever find it, boy. I've been looking all my life, and I haven't found a way of proving that everyone is who they say they are. Hundred percent certainty, and all that."

Harry scowled, but conceded the point.

* * *

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was a much busier place than he'd ever seen it before—even when the inspectors had been making their rounds, hauling away vast quantities of contraband (he'd called in Mr. Weasley's subordinates for a raid, amongst others). He'd also never before had to learn the location before he could even _see_ it, however. Apparently, this was the structure of the Fidelius Charm.

He knew that he would never remember all the people to whom he'd been introduced tonight. Not even whoever it was had compared him to his dad. (Did they look _that_ similar? He'd been told that only Snape saw any resemblance.)

He shrugged, content to be able to retreat inside, and lower his guard a _bit_. The Dursleys were the sort of threat that he needed to always keep half an eye on. Hogwarts was his safe haven, or rather the Gryffindor Tower was. Nowhere where he might encounter Malfoy was quite safe. But, Hogwarts was his Palace-on-Earth. Even combat there was like fighting on your home turf. Grimmauld Place was somewhere between. He knew it, but knew neither he nor Sirius had any fondness for it. Still, out of all the places he'd been to in this life, this was the only place he knew he'd been to _before_. In his past life.

He closed his eyes before he entered, reopening his seventh sense to try to feel out his own magic, the magic that Sirius and Remus agreed he'd invested in this place. While he was sure that it would do its best to hide from anyone else, why should it hide from him?

He only gave it the analysis of a few seconds from without the house, lest he attract attention by his delay. Grimmauld Place was like a model of a house that had had variegated yarn wrapt into a ball all 'round it, smothering it. Hardly an inch of it could be seen under all those thick, ropey threads. But, there were thinner, wiry threads in there, as well.

He realised that he'd never separate them out in the few seconds he'd given himself for study, and entered the house, instead. He'd try again, from within the house, after everyone was asleep.

Mrs. Weasley greeted them all at the door, asking them about the trip. Was Tonks exaggerating when she said that Moody had tried to make them come by way of Greenland? He wasn't sure. It hadn't seemed that cold for him, but….

A moment of incaution on the part of Tonks awoke Mrs. Black, sleeping behind her curtains. Harry glanced at Sirius, who gave him a sheepish smile, and he and Remus rushed forwards to draw them shut across his mother's larger-than-life depiction, ignoring her even more amplified cries. Harry came over to stand by them for a moment, in the time it took for Mrs. Weasley to appear and haul him away to his guest quarters.

"Shall I see what I can do about removing this thing?" he asked of Sirius, who looked a bit flustered, and red with rage. He'd asked before, during holiday last year, but that was back when Sirius had thought he wouldn't have to endure this house often or long, let alone with guests…. He turned to Harry, then, who put on his best innocent expression, which didn't fool either of them. Sirius paused, glancing surreptitiously around the room.

"…Can I get back to you on that?" he asked, noticing Mrs. Weasley. Harry gave him a smile that held actual warmth, which was more than most people would ever receive from him.

"Of course, Sirius. Take your time," he said.

Sirius and Mrs. Weasley must have been at odds, because even though Sirius had already done the same thing before their departure for Grimmauld Place, he pulled Harry into a crushing hug (underscoring that he was the human equivalent of Ron), but then taking the opportunity to hiss back. "Yes, please. I'm at my wit's end. I don't think wizarding magic will work on it."

Mrs. Weasley tutted, arms akimbo as she stared both of them down, as if upset that Sirius should display any sort of care for Harry.

He was reconsidering liking her. Sirius was his friend first, and he was Harry's godfather. If any "adult" had "authority" over him, it was Sirius. Let her serve ten years in Azkaban for her fidelity, before she judged _him_.

He would, of course, be thinking this thrice as hard or more before the night was over. For now, he gave Sirius and Remus a sharp nod, and allowed himself to be led upstairs, a faint grin etched across his face, as he ignored the wall of elf heads.

Sirius insisted upon escorting them up the stairs, as if he didn't trust Mrs. Weasley alone with Harry. Something must have happened. Harry tried his very hardest not to roll his eyes. But, as Mrs. Weasley pushed open the door for Harry, who was still carrying his school trunk packed with all of his belongings of any consequence, Sirius took the opportunity afforded by her moment of distraction to lean in and whisper to Harry, "Watch out. The portrait in this bedroom reports to Dumbledore. One of my ancestors was a headmaster at Hogwarts."

Oh. He still had a guard, then. Of course. Let's treat him as if he were a criminal, shall we?

Sirius turned to head back down the stairs, standing aside for Mrs. Weasley to pass, before nodding, and giving Harry an encouraging smile.

Harry wondered which part of the house that Loki had found to hide in, and whether it were still possible to hide there.

He had scarce crossed the threshold when he dropped the heavy trunk onto his own foot as a direct result of the unexpected impact of something with impossibly tangled, curly brown hair, which was about all that he could see of her.

"Oh, Harry! You're alright! We were so worried…I mean, that dementor attack…but you're okay, the Ministry can't possibly expel you, I mean—"

Hermione was entering her mile-a-minute mode, and he knew that he had to head her off, and fast.

"Hermione, breathe," he managed to say. "Also, please let go. You do realise that _I_ also need to breathe, don't you?"

He caught sight of Hermione's glare as she withdrew, taking a step back. He kicked the door closed behind him, and nudged the trunk aside with the same movement. He rolled his shoulders, as if that would redistribute the pain of impact. When Hermione hugged you, she tended to crush you. She spent all of her time lugging around heavy books, which made her far stronger than she had any right to be—at least, stronger than she should be _without being aware of her own strength_. She was like Thor, that way. And, speaking of—

With Hermione out of the way, it was Ron's turn to crush Harry in yet another fierce hug—Harry's third or fourth of the night. Ron, at least, understood how to hug people without compacting them like a clamp or a vise. Harry waited for a full fifteen seconds before realising that his participation was required, and giving Ron an awkward sort of half-hug back. Insufferable.

"It is good to see you again. I feared the worst when I heard of the dementors—I know how they affect you. Everyone was most distressed, little brother. I must apologise for not coming in person to assist in your rescue. I understand that there were a great number of volunteers, however…I assumed that you were safe,and had no way in which—"

He just _had_ to remind Harry of the dementors, didn't he?

"It's fine, Ron," Harry said, with a sigh. "I think all of these hugs may have broken three of my ribs, however. What do you know of what is happening with the Order?"

"Almost nothing!" Hermione interjected before Ron could even open his mouth. She seemed to think that Harry needed placating. Perhaps, he did. But, he doubted that he was as ignorant as she believed him to be. Nevertheless, he leant back against the door behind him, and folded his arms. "We're underage—not told anything, you know, 'too young to join the Order'; Mrs. Weasley won't let Fred and George join even though they _are_ of age, and—"

"Is there a particular reason that you refuse to speak of anything important?" Harry asked, keeping his voice very level and calm, which seemed to unnerve her rather.

She glanced over at a blank stretch of canvas on the wall, and Harry sighed, remembering what Sirius said.

"Well, at least you knew _something_!" he cried, throwing his hands in the air, voice now quite a bit louder, and carrying. "At least the two of you were together! Where was I? Stuck at Privet Drive. I was stuck on Privet Drive, trying to glean information of any worth from the Daily_ Prophet_, although I realised soon enough that _that_ was worthless, too. So what if you don't know precisely what the Order's up to? At least you've been here, and safe—I don't suppose either of _you_ has been attacked by dementors at all this summer—"

He turned to glare at Ron for this, and Ron bowed his head, as if ashamed that he hadn't been there. Really, he couldn't save the world, and should stop acting as if everyone expected him to save the universe single-handed. "But, why should I be safe? Why should _I_ know anything? I suppose I haven't done anything worth trusting, have I? I wasn't the one who got tied to a tombstone and nearly killed a couple of months ago—and I'm _sure_ that experience had no adverse effects on my psyche. No, everyone is okay with casting me off to the Dursleys for the summer—I suppose they were hoping to be rid of me—"

"Oh, Harry, we wanted to tell you, but Dumbledore made us promise—" Hermione at last managed to interrupt. She was very wide-eyed, hunted rabbit. A twinge of conscience tried to develop. This was no time for that.

"Well, you can't have wanted to tell me that much, now could you? 'Dumbledore made you promise', hah!"

"Harry, you—you're absolutely right to be angry…I'd be furious if it were me, but I—"

"Enough!" Ron shouted, his voice so full of authority that Harry immediately straightened his back as if standing at attention, sparing only half a glance to the portrait on the walls. Hermione looked back and forth between them, clearly torn, and Ron come over to gently put an arm around her shoulder. "Harry, you understand full well that, no matter your deeds and feats, you are still considered underage. Dumbledore must have his reasons, but regardless, it is unfair to accuse Hermione and me of excluding you or withholding information from you when you yourself have kept some—"

"Well, this is all highly entertaining," Harry said, in a very level voice, his face blank. He hadn't been upset in the slightest until Ron had chastised him, with cause, for scaring Hermione. He forged on regardless. "But, I think we have more important matters to—"

"Harry! You've arrived!" cried a new arrival, permanently derailing the conversation.

"We thought we heard your dulcet tones!"

"You heard _Ron_, more like," Harry said, narrowing his eyes into a glare just for them. Fred-and-George. There went any chance of speaking with Ron and Hermione, which was probably a good thing. They'd _have_ to wait to speak to him later, when they were alone. Perhaps, the library—

What, the Twins were still talking? Something about how he shouldn't repress his anger? Eh, what did _they_ know?

"Well, Harry, just dropped in to say hello," they said, with a friendly wave. He glared in return. This had best not be revenge for shoving off his winnings onto them. _They_ were the ones wanted to open a joke shop.

They apparated (for that must be what it had been) back whence they'd come (wherever that was), which couldn't have been far removed. The entire Weasley clan was staying here, after all. He was a bit surprised (and quietly disappointed) that Ginny hadn't come round yet. Then again, he could hardly blame her for avoiding a shouting match.

Mrs. Weasley came by a few moments later, showcasing why they'd been so eager to be away.

"Dinner, you lot," she said, looking around the room at the three of them in overt suspicion. Her gaze softened when it fell upon Harry. "Are you quite alright, Harry, dear?"

He blinked at the sudden change in her demeanour. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley."

Ron sighed.


End file.
